Thirteen
Page 59
She knew that face. She saw a version of it almost every day—a longer version, more angular, with dark eyes, slightly slanted, different, yet familiar enough that it was like the scent—that first thing she thought was Jeremy. Yet it wasn’t just the similarity that made her heart stop. It was this face, one she’d seen when Clay first took her into the locked bedroom to try to help her understand Jeremy all those years ago. The face she’d seen again when they’d cleaned out that bedroom to make way for their children, Jeremy finally ready to let go—happy and relieved to let go. She’d seen this face in the photos in that room, and it didn’t matter if she’d never met the man himself. She hated the face and she hated the man who wore it and now, looking across the room and seeing it in the flesh, the only thing she felt was hate.
“Hello,” Malcolm Danvers said. “You must be Elena.”
“He’s—” Savannah began.
“Oh, let her guess,” the man said. “That’ll be so much more fun.” He stepped toward Elena, his nostrils flaring, drinking in her scent. “Do you know who I am?”
She forced the words through clenched teeth. “I do.”
“Really? Are you sure? I must be much younger than you expected. And much more alive.”
“Temporarily,” she said, a growl escaping with the word.
He laughed and walked toward her.
Malcolm Danvers. She was looking at Malcolm Danvers. The how, the why—none of that mattered. This was the man who’d made Jeremy’s life hell. The father who’d despised him and never let a day pass without letting Jeremy know it. The man who’d found Clay in the bayou and tossed him aside to die. The man who’d later decided, after Jeremy rescued Clay, that Clay was the kind of son he wanted. Clay never told her that, but she’d heard it from Nick and Antonio, how Malcolm tried to turn Clay against Jeremy. It didn’t work, of course. Madness to try. But Clay and Jeremy still suffered for it.
Now Malcolm was back? Not if she could help it. He was going to die in this room, and Jeremy would never be the wiser.
Elena watched him as he came toward her. As he circled her, she pivoted, following him, every muscle tight, gaze locked on his.
“Clayton’s chosen mate,” Malcolm said. “You’re what I would have expected. Pretty. Physically fit. Smart enough to know when to watch and listen. But giving me a look that says you’ll rip my spleen out as soon as I give you the chance. Yes, exactly what I would expect from Clayton.”
He laughed, and the sound was like claws scraping her spine, a perversely warped version of Jeremy’s deep chuckle.
“You’ll give my regards to your mate, won’t you?” Malcolm said. “Tell him I remember him fondly, despite his every attempt to ensure I wouldn’t. I look forward to seeing him again.” He glanced at the door and smiled. “Someday soon.”
He started toward the door.
Elena swerved into his path. “You’re not going anywhere. Jeremy and Clay think you’re dead, and I’d hate to disappoint them.”
He threw back his head and laughed. Then he dove at her. She slammed a fist into his gut. He doubled over. A good kick would have dropped him to the floor, but when she tried, he grabbed her leg and sent her flying into the wall. As she scrambled up, Savannah hit him with a knockback.
“Savannah?” Elena said, “stay out of this. Please.”
“Good advice, little witch,” Malcolm said as he recovered.
“The necks of pretty girls break like twigs. Did you know that?”
He would know. Elena had heard that mutts weren’t the only prey Malcolm Danvers hunted. No better than a man-killer, they’d said. Yet the Pack never kicked him out. In fact, they’d almost elected him Alpha. That was one of the many injustices that still dogged the Pack thirty years after Jeremy took over. Mutts had long memories.
Malcolm turned toward her. “Do you really think you can kill me?”
“I’m going to try,” she said.
He smiled. “Better wolves than you have given it their best, and gone to a shallow grave. You’re very valuable to someone I care about. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then sit down in that chair and we’ll see if your neck snaps like a twig.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it, “You’ve let this Alpha business go to your head, my dear. It’s a sham, you know. Clayton will be Alpha. You’re just the pretty fool who thinks she’s a big, bad wolf.”
“Then it should be easy to take me down.”
His smile turned into an ugly scowl. “I won’t kill you, she-bitch. I wouldn’t do that to Clayton. But it seems he’s neglected to teach you to respect your betters.”
“Oh, I respect my betters. But a Y chromosome doesn’t automatically place you in that category.”
“No? Well, maybe I’ll show you what it does mean. Teach you the lesson my boy failed to impart.”
Two years ago, that threat would have brought back memories of her hellish years as a foster child, and it would have done exactly what he wanted—it would have scared her. But she’d faced down those demons in Alaska and now she heard his words, looked in his eyes, and felt nothing but cold rage.
“Go ahead and try,” she said.
He charged. Elena stepped aside at the last moment, grabbed him by the back of the shirt, and yanked him off his feet. He broke from her grip, and hit her with a blow to the chin that sent her reeling. She blocked his next punch, then landed one of her own.
Earlier, she’d thought of the aches and bruises she’d feel tomorrow from the fight with the guards. But after a few rounds with Malcolm, they started making an early appearance—a shoulder throbbing when she threw a punch, a leg muscle screaming when she kicked, a blow that didn’t have the power it should, a dodge that wasn’t quite fast enough.
Having superstrength was a lot more useful against a human opponent. It didn’t matter how hard Elena worked out, biology dictated that she’d never develop the upper-body strength to compete with a physically fit male werewolf. Instead, she had to rely on speed and experience. Today neither seemed to be enough.
As Elena fought, she kept reminding herself that Malcolm had to be at least eighty. But he didn’t look like he was eighty, and he sure as hell didn’t fight like he was eighty, and she had no idea how that could be possible, but it was.
“Hello,” Malcolm Danvers said. “You must be Elena.”
“He’s—” Savannah began.
“Oh, let her guess,” the man said. “That’ll be so much more fun.” He stepped toward Elena, his nostrils flaring, drinking in her scent. “Do you know who I am?”
She forced the words through clenched teeth. “I do.”
“Really? Are you sure? I must be much younger than you expected. And much more alive.”
“Temporarily,” she said, a growl escaping with the word.
He laughed and walked toward her.
Malcolm Danvers. She was looking at Malcolm Danvers. The how, the why—none of that mattered. This was the man who’d made Jeremy’s life hell. The father who’d despised him and never let a day pass without letting Jeremy know it. The man who’d found Clay in the bayou and tossed him aside to die. The man who’d later decided, after Jeremy rescued Clay, that Clay was the kind of son he wanted. Clay never told her that, but she’d heard it from Nick and Antonio, how Malcolm tried to turn Clay against Jeremy. It didn’t work, of course. Madness to try. But Clay and Jeremy still suffered for it.
Now Malcolm was back? Not if she could help it. He was going to die in this room, and Jeremy would never be the wiser.
Elena watched him as he came toward her. As he circled her, she pivoted, following him, every muscle tight, gaze locked on his.
“Clayton’s chosen mate,” Malcolm said. “You’re what I would have expected. Pretty. Physically fit. Smart enough to know when to watch and listen. But giving me a look that says you’ll rip my spleen out as soon as I give you the chance. Yes, exactly what I would expect from Clayton.”
He laughed, and the sound was like claws scraping her spine, a perversely warped version of Jeremy’s deep chuckle.
“You’ll give my regards to your mate, won’t you?” Malcolm said. “Tell him I remember him fondly, despite his every attempt to ensure I wouldn’t. I look forward to seeing him again.” He glanced at the door and smiled. “Someday soon.”
He started toward the door.
Elena swerved into his path. “You’re not going anywhere. Jeremy and Clay think you’re dead, and I’d hate to disappoint them.”
He threw back his head and laughed. Then he dove at her. She slammed a fist into his gut. He doubled over. A good kick would have dropped him to the floor, but when she tried, he grabbed her leg and sent her flying into the wall. As she scrambled up, Savannah hit him with a knockback.
“Savannah?” Elena said, “stay out of this. Please.”
“Good advice, little witch,” Malcolm said as he recovered.
“The necks of pretty girls break like twigs. Did you know that?”
He would know. Elena had heard that mutts weren’t the only prey Malcolm Danvers hunted. No better than a man-killer, they’d said. Yet the Pack never kicked him out. In fact, they’d almost elected him Alpha. That was one of the many injustices that still dogged the Pack thirty years after Jeremy took over. Mutts had long memories.
Malcolm turned toward her. “Do you really think you can kill me?”
“I’m going to try,” she said.
He smiled. “Better wolves than you have given it their best, and gone to a shallow grave. You’re very valuable to someone I care about. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then sit down in that chair and we’ll see if your neck snaps like a twig.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it, “You’ve let this Alpha business go to your head, my dear. It’s a sham, you know. Clayton will be Alpha. You’re just the pretty fool who thinks she’s a big, bad wolf.”
“Then it should be easy to take me down.”
His smile turned into an ugly scowl. “I won’t kill you, she-bitch. I wouldn’t do that to Clayton. But it seems he’s neglected to teach you to respect your betters.”
“Oh, I respect my betters. But a Y chromosome doesn’t automatically place you in that category.”
“No? Well, maybe I’ll show you what it does mean. Teach you the lesson my boy failed to impart.”
Two years ago, that threat would have brought back memories of her hellish years as a foster child, and it would have done exactly what he wanted—it would have scared her. But she’d faced down those demons in Alaska and now she heard his words, looked in his eyes, and felt nothing but cold rage.
“Go ahead and try,” she said.
He charged. Elena stepped aside at the last moment, grabbed him by the back of the shirt, and yanked him off his feet. He broke from her grip, and hit her with a blow to the chin that sent her reeling. She blocked his next punch, then landed one of her own.
Earlier, she’d thought of the aches and bruises she’d feel tomorrow from the fight with the guards. But after a few rounds with Malcolm, they started making an early appearance—a shoulder throbbing when she threw a punch, a leg muscle screaming when she kicked, a blow that didn’t have the power it should, a dodge that wasn’t quite fast enough.
Having superstrength was a lot more useful against a human opponent. It didn’t matter how hard Elena worked out, biology dictated that she’d never develop the upper-body strength to compete with a physically fit male werewolf. Instead, she had to rely on speed and experience. Today neither seemed to be enough.
As Elena fought, she kept reminding herself that Malcolm had to be at least eighty. But he didn’t look like he was eighty, and he sure as hell didn’t fight like he was eighty, and she had no idea how that could be possible, but it was.
