Wolfs Claim A Wolf Pack Motor - Anne Marsh

Wolf’s
Claim
ANNE MARSH
She’s human. I’m not.
She’s prey. I’m the predator.
She’s off-limits and I’m over the line.
I’m not supposed to hunt her, I'm not supposed to want her, but I do. She’s on the run from the MC,
making a new life for herself deep in the Louisiana bayou, and only a bastard would go after her. Did I
mention that I’m not a nice guy? – Blade
Grant "Blade" Dean spent years fighting for the Breed motorcycle club. He’s sworn fealty to the MC’s
Alpha, and pack comes first… until he rescues a human female from a territory war. He’s no white knight,
and he’s tired of the fighting. He’s found his woman, and now he’ll do whatever it takes to keep her…
Blade is fifty shades of wrong and Leah Holmes knows it. She knew it when she gave him her virginity
four years ago and she knows it when he talks his way onto her houseboat. He’s a bad boy biker, a killer
—and a wolf. Giving a big, bad wolf a second chance is stupid… isn’t it?
BLADE
I DON’T BELIEVE IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. FATED MATES AREN’T FACT—THEY’RE JUST A CLEVER SALES JOB. PEOPLE
bang more than they emote, and they don’t take one look and fall in love. Doesn’t mean I’m not on board
with happily ever after and monogamy, however. Because I am.
Five minutes after we arrive at Rose Bayou on pack business, I so fucking am.
The cabins at Rose Bayou could be the set for a romantic movie. On the outskirts of Baton Rouge, right
on the edge of the bayou, the place is picture perfect. White houses with red tin roofs and white picket
fences front a pretty stretch of water. Spanish moss drapes off the cypress trees and a long-legged white
egret poses dramatically. The bird’s upstaged, though, by the couple screwing on the porch farthest from
the road. Doesn’t look like love from where I sit—falls more in the bang than emote bucket, if you feel
me.
Jace, Fang, and I pull our bikes off the road and throttle back to check out the action. From our current
position, I can see Two Dog is on top—he is a wolf shifter after all—and he’s going after the girl hard,
marking her as his. He pins her arms over her head with one meaty hand, while he pops the buttons on his
jeans with the other. She kinda wriggles—and not toward Two Dog. Might be her position pinned on the
wood porch, or maybe she’s not an outdoor gal, but I’m thinking the problem’s something else entirely.
She’s not screaming his name like he’s the second coming of Christ, not arching toward him, not doing
much of anything. She looks bored as hell, which means she’s no more his than the territory he tried to
steal from Jace is.
Neither of them notices our arrival, which is downright miraculous, because we’re not quiet. Our
bikes made a hell of a noise tearing up the dirt track leading to the cabins, but Two Dog’s got his music
turned up to epic proportions, and he’s definitely in the moment. That he doesn’t hear us coming thanks to
his beats is gonna make teaching him a lesson about not trespassing on pack territory even more fun. Jace
must agree because he grunts, and a big, shit-eating grin stretches his face. We kill our engines and coast
to a halt.
“Didn’t know I was getting a show,” he drawls.
Oui. That makes two of us.
Two Dog has his dick out, displaying more skin than I ever wanted to see from him, and the girl’s skirt
is well north of her waist. Maybe my instincts—or my stupid, fucking heart—suspect what my eyes are
slow to recognize because my gaze goes straight to the girl’s bare right hip where the cutest little spray of
freckles marches across her skin. Also, FYI? She has a freckle on her ass and another pair of them
beneath her left tit. I know this because two years ago I kissed and licked each and every one.
That’s my girl.
Or she’s gonna be, just as soon as I can do some convincing and peel the wrong wolf off her sweet ass.
I’ve never joined the ranks of nice guys, not even when I was a bona fide knight all those centuries ago.
Not once have I worried about karma, paying it forward, or whose special snowflake feelings got hurt
when I took care of pack business. This? This is Karma laughing her ass off at me because how can a
mating work if your mate has already chosen someone else?
When you find the one, you recognize her. That’s the bullshit line we wolf shifters feed ourselves. We
might not be big on Hallmark cards and sending flowers, but we believe that there’s one perfect female
out there just waiting around for our sorry, slow selves to chase her down and mate her. It’s good to have
fantasies, oui? Mystery Girl and I hooked up two years ago, and then she dumped my ass.
This may be the first time I’ve seen her in two years, but I’ve thought about her way too often. Seems
like a day hasn’t gone by where I haven’t replayed my mental tape of our one night together. Not that it
qualified as a night—more like thirty minutes. I hadn’t even seen her face—it had been masquerade night
at the shifter bar down by the bayou, and she’d refused to take her mask off. I saw all the rest of her
though, and I’d been interested in more. Interested in things like her phone number, her name, and an
actual get-to-know-you conversation where we could hear each other and not just the pounding bar music.
Not sure why she’d been so desperate to drag me outside and do me against a wall behind the bar.
Usually, my dick’s happy to say thank you and move on, but there’d been something about her. Sure, she
made me feel good, but there’d been another kind of feel going on, too. We did it out there by the bayou
and then she got up and left. Didn’t wait around for her own orgasm, didn’t volunteer her name, and didn’t
care that she walked away and left me feeling shit I’d never expected to feel.
I’d thought that night was a beginning; she’d decided it was an ending and had taken off as soon as I’d
come. While I’d already been hoping for me, she’d been thinking enough already.
Not my finest night.
And now? While I’ve always kept an eye out for her since, I didn’t expect my first real view of my girl
to be of her naked from the waist down. Not sure how she’s gonna feel about handing me a do-over and a
second chance—because I want that.
I want her.
“We can wait, right? Because it would be a shame to interrupt the man right now.” Fang practically
falls off his bike beside me, twisting for a better look at what she’s been concealing. My girl’s gorgeous,
but I don’t want Fang leering at her. She’s someone special. She deserves better. She’s the fucking Mona
Lisa of women, and she deserves a place of honor.
I need to kill someone—might start with Fang and then move on to Two Dog. My snarl makes that shit
crystal clear. “You don’t look at her.”
“Kinda hard not to.” Fang is the voice of fucking reason for once in his life, and he’s usually more
rabid dog than philosopher. “She’s the one getting it on in a public place. Not as if we busted into her
bedroom.”
“Don’t stare at her,” I repeat, elbowing Fang hard.
“What? Does she look like she’s particular? She’s doing it with Two Dog.” Fang sounds revolted, and
I know the man bangs anything that moves. He’s the carrion eater of sex, so he has no grounds for
complaint.
And hey—maybe Two Dog has some redeeming qualities that are just not visible to those of us in
possession of a dick. I’ve never pretended to be any kind of expert on women. I may have been born in the
fifteenth century, but I like to think I learn from my mistakes. Times change, blah fucking blah, right? And
yet, I’m seconds away from going medieval man on the wolf humping my girl. Fortunately, I have a
convenient outlet for my rage (and oui, my stupid butt hurt emotions that my mystery gal has picked
another wolf over me).
I reach over and grab Fang by the throat. Squeeze. The brother does best with show and tell. “You feel
my fingers?”
Fang tilts his head to the side, best as he can, exposing his throat. He’d goddamned well better submit
to me—he’s the newest member of our pack, and I outrank him. “Hard not to,” he mutters. Pissed off
replaces revulsion in his voice.
“Your eyes stay above my fingers when you’re looking at her,” I growl.
“Gotcha.” Fang tries to nod, and I reluctantly let go. Crushing his windpipe would be satisfying as
fuck, but I’ve made my point. I inhale. Exhale. Count to twenty and then do it again and again, until my
heart’s not pounding in my ears and I can focus. I don’t usually have a problem keeping my cool.
Today was just supposed to be about pack business. T.D.’s staked a claim to this little scrap of land,
and since it’s riding the edge of the map between Baton Rouge and the bayou, he might have gotten away
with it… except he’s been using it as a base to ride into Baton Rouge. He and his boys have been building
a name for themselves, but they’ve been doing it on Jace’s streets and in Jace’s territory. Kind of like
breaking into your neighbor’s house to pee in his pool or shit in his toilet—and in this case, the neighbor’s
place is a big ass palace while you’re squatting in a shack. T.D. can’t go up against the big boys and win.
Not yet. And that not yet is why we’re out here today—to put him in his place and make sure he
understands that he does, in fact, answer to Jace.
Jace hasn’t been our pack Alpha for long but already it’s clear he’s not the wolf Big Red was. He’s
every bit as brutal if circumstances call for it, but he doesn’t get off on hurting weaker wolves. Big Red
lashed out at anyone who crossed his path. The man fucking lived to hurt others, and it was a good day
when Jace challenged for and won the pack leadership. T.D.’s mistake was thinking that Jace would be so
focused on the leadership change that he’d ignore anything else happening on the edge of his territory. Not
a fucking chance.
Jace whacks me on the shoulder and swings his leg over the bike. “No idea how you do that calm-
down shit, but good to have your head back in the game. If Keelie Sue finds out I’ve been playing Peeping
Tom, she’ll kill me.”
It’s strange how one woman has turned our pack inside out. Keelie Sue is Jace’s mate—and if you
listen to him, the man’s heart. I haven’t seen any evidence to disprove his claim. He fucking worships her.
She’s a great girl and not hard on the eyes, but fortunately I don’t feel the same pull Jace does. My
kryptonite is right there on the front porch spread wide for the whole world to see.
Self-control is my fucking mantra. It’s the golden rule, the one law I live by each and every day. I
concentrate on breathing, finding the rhythm and the pattern. It’s the same beat that I learned when I trained
to be a knight five hundred years ago and it has the same rhythm as the swing of a sword. You go deep
inside yourself to find the calm until you’re standing in the eye of the storm and then you unleash all that
power on the battlefield. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s fight.
And right now, it’s show time.
I move, headed for the wolf doing my girl. Pause one second in my roll when I almost step on the
discarded panties Two Dog must have tossed this way. The panties are cute—a skimpy pink thong with
lace. I swipe them off the ground and shove them into my back pocket. Her taste in lingerie meets with my
approval. Her pretty legs wrapped around some other wolf’s hips? Oui. That’s the deal breaker right
there.
I know the moment the party princess on the front porch spots us coming. She starts doing this
hyperventilating thing and comes up on her elbows, cursing and slapping at Two Dog’s shoulders.
Her eyes meet mine, and everything else kinda fades away as if we’re in a Hallmark movie and shit’s
about to get good. Her eyes are the prettiest hazel, gold and green like sunshine coming through the
cypress trees in the morning. Long lashes, too, as if Mother Fucking Nature decided, what the hell, let’s go
all out. Her blonde hair is rucked up in back from being smashed against the porch floor. Or maybe Two
Dog’s been fisting it, because that’s what I’d do. I bet that body of hers has been making men’s hearts beat
a little faster for a few years, but this is the first time I’ve seen her face.
It’s my goddamned luckiest day ever.
Leah
PICNIC IN MY DATE’S DICTIONARY MUST BE A DIRTY SYNONYM FOR SCREW LIKE BUNNIES ON THE FRONT PORCH. THIS
is news to me, but since I’d already decided to go all the way the next decent chance I got, I can’t really
blame him. Saying no will only piss him off, and his enthusiasm is flattering, right? Rather than sweep me
off my feet and take me inside (where presumably he has an actual mattress and furniture), T.D. goes at me
hard and hot in the middle of so much nature that I should be singing songs like a Disney princess.
T.D.’s a good-looking guy. I’m lucky that he likes me. He’s nicely built without being a bona fide man
mountain, and up until this afternoon, he’s been a decent date. We’ve gone dancing twice, had dinner once,
and he’s brought me flowers. When he suggested a “romantic picnic” at Rose Bayou, I obviously
misunderstood. I blame the place’s name. He had my skirt up and my panties off within five minutes of our
arrival on the back of his bike (and yes, I realize a skirt wasn’t my smartest choice of riding apparel). I
have just one dating rule: after we have sex, I hit the road. I’m not a repeater. I don’t collect frequent flyer
miles. And I never, ever visit the same place twice. It keeps life simple.
I ignore the pounding, the grunting, and my sneaking sense of disappointment. Instead of a four-course
home-cooked meal, I’m getting take-out in a bag. I’ll survive.
I even smile.
Because you know he’ll probably feel bad if he realizes I’m not really into this and that will only lead
to confrontation. Confrontation is also on my list of things-to-avoid. T.D. does something with his dick,
dragging it up and down my bare-to-the-world pussy, and I’m probably supposed to like it. Since I don’t
mind, and he doesn’t check in to see how I’m doing, we’re good. My butt pushes harder into the porch as
T.D. pushes at me.
Wow. He really sucks at this.
Is it too much to expect a few compliments? I’m not looking for a song or a twelve-stanza poem, but
I’m feeling a little superfluous to my vagina here.
I should focus. I’m honestly not all that into sex, although my bestie, Harlow, has assured me that it’s
just like aversion therapy. Expose myself enough to a few good penises (penii?) and thank you doctor, I’ll
be cured. I’m certainly exposed at the moment—sweet baby Jesus, I hope T.D. was right when he said we
had Rose Bayou to ourselves this afternoon—but I’m honestly not seeing stars. Or fireworks, rainbows,
or orgasms in my near future.
The bayou’s pretty. Spanish moss drapes over the trees, the sun’s out, and it’s so warm that everything
has this delicious, sleepy lull, as if we’re swimming through heated water and slowly falling into la la
land. Maybe I should bring my houseboat down here or to someplace similar. Just as soon as I fix the
motor, I’ll do that. I’ve been at my current mooring for three months now and that’s two months too long.
T.D. shoves, my body gives, and he achieves a quarter inch of penetration with a needy groan. Sex
with him takes forever. The scenery slo-mos out as my head decides now would be a really great time to
put into practice Harlow’s other piece of advice. Fantasize. She promised that T.D. would never know if
I mentally wallpapered him over with Johnny Depp—and then she argued that role-play is healthy. I
mentally try a few pirate dreads on T.D.’s close-shaved head, but… no. Not happening. Another face
swims into focus, waving for my libido’s attention. Blade.
The man was my first, and for the thirty minutes we did it out behind the biker bar where we met, he
was the center of my universe. I can still remember his dark hair falling around his shoulders as he fucked
me hard and fast. It was a tight fit. He was big, and he thoroughly punched my V-card.
Pretty sure he didn’t know about the V-card, but advertising my virginity felt like announcing I was a
first-time surgeon and who volunteers to go under the knife? Being first in line only works in the books.
He held me up against the wall outside that biker dive bar that night while looking like a god. An aloof,
rather deadly god. Tall, lean, and muscled? Yes, please. He had harsh, high cheekbones and an air of
lethal confidence that disinvited the bar’s dumber patrons from fucking with him. The smart ones had
already given him a wide berth—despite the Friday night crowd, he had a clear two feet of space around
him. I kid you not.
He also had at least ten years on me and was damned hard to overlook. He radiated a lethal don’t fuck
with me vibe. Rumor claimed he’d made a fortune as a mixed martial arts fighter, and he owned a gym
where he trained other fighters in medieval fighting styles. He also rode with the Breed MC. Pick your
poison, but both were good reasons for a girl to put the man on her sexual no-fly list.
Still, I’d been feeling dangerous that night, and I’d also been tired of being a virgin. Of being afraid of
letting someone close, letting anyone all the way in. I’d decided he’d be the one I’d use to get the job
done, and boy had he. Our thirty minutes together had more ups and downs than a rollercoaster. And just
like a rollercoaster, I knew two minutes in that I’d made a big ass mistake and that nothing could ever get
me back on that particular ride. He was too goddamned big.
Still, he did what I needed, I rode his dick, and together we punched my V-card into oblivion.
Honestly? I was kind of bummed at the lack of fireworks, but maybe I also needed to rethink my choice of
venues. A masked Mardi Gras party at a biker bar could never be conducive to meaningful relationship
development. I’m a private person. I like my personal space bubble to approximate the landmass and size
of a small continent. And yet, I’d been drawn to him like nobody’s business.
Two years later and apparently one rumor is true. You don’t forget your first. In fact, not only have I
mentally tagged him in for T.D., but I swear I see him sauntering across the yard toward me. Imagination’s
a funny thing. I lever up on my elbows, T.D. grunts again, and holy gods… that is Blade heading my way.
Worse, he’s not alone. He comes with a pair of the biggest, meanest, scariest looking biker dudes I’ve
seen in ages.
“Off,” I shriek at T.D, slapping his shoulders. This only serves to make my abs burn in protest—I
should not have ignored my crunches.
“Come on, baby,” he whines as he pops out, and I swear the stupid bastard tries to stick it into me
again. So. Not. Happening. Everything’s wrong. Nothing is going the way I planned it. Would it kill
Karma to bring me flowers instead of a shitstorm just once? I’d never ask to win the lottery again.
“We need to talk.” The statement comes from the big guy leading the biker parade toward us.
His words sound sensitive and positively enlightened, except that he delivers his pronouncement at the
top of his lungs and follows it up by launching his boot at Two Dog’s ribs. T.D. bellows, I try to scramble
away, and a big callused hand clamps down on T.D.’s shoulder and yanks. T.D. flies backward with a
roar. I roll into a ball, tucking my arms around my knees and trying to make myself as small a target as
possible as men yell at each other. How could one romantic picnic go so wrong, so fast?
When I risk a look at the battleground, T.D. is rolling on the grass, pounding at and being pounded by
Big, Mean, Scary Biker Number One. His face set in harsh lines, T.D.’s attacker radiates anger and a
dominating, lethal power. The tribal tattoos on his arms flex as if the universe has barcoded him
dangerous. The other unidentified mystery guy alternates between leering at me and watching the fight.
Which means… shit. I have no idea where Blade is.
Big hands haul me up against a hard body.
Question answered.
My butt ends up pressed against his front, but that’s the least of my worries. Scary Biker lands a
serious hit on T.D., and Blade turns sideways, putting himself between...