Lycan Vengeance

Chapter Two

Knox had been a hunter for far too long to not realize he was being followed again. He’d been tailed for around a month now, but had to admit that whoever his stalker was had a few tricks up his sleeve. He’d gotten close a few times to discovering who hunted him, but he’d always been a second too late to come face-to-face with his pursuer.

While the deer urine had fooled him for about a second, he couldn’t discount the cleverness of the trick, as it would probably work well in masking one’s scent from most lycans, especially the young rogues he helped keep in check. Being one of the few ancients left in a dwindling race, the wool was not so easily pulled over his eyes.

He had killed more rogues in his time than he cared to remember, and hated the impact the loss had on the lycans, but there was no other option for those who refused to reform. The rogues enjoyed appalling and unacceptable behavior, which included killing potential mates. When he ran across a rogue who was willing to reform—no matter how rare the instance—it made all the sacrifices, the pain, the loneliness worth it.

Anything he had to do to help save his race was worth the steep price it cost him, even if each rogue he’d killed who’d refused to obey ancient laws claimed a piece of his soul. He didn’t enjoy executing anyone, even those who deserved it, but it was a necessary job that had to be done. While he knew other lycans, ancient and younger, who were not rogue played a part in the battle to save his species, sometimes he felt as if he were the only one. Now am I being a whiny bitch or what?

Ancient lycan law demanded the protection of all potential mates. Potential mates were becoming a rare find, and it was paramount to the survival of the lycans to protect them. Unfortunately, rogues didn’t have the same views. They thought potential mates were fair game to all lycans, and any of those who carried the main scent who happened into their paths usually ended up getting kidnapped, tortured, or raped, or any combination of all three.

The majority of those who went rogue were young pups who’d been born of ill-treated women and who’d just come into manhood, drunk off their newly heightened senses and power. That was problem number two:

There weren’t enough ancients to keep track of all the new pups born. Thus the pups weren’t taught the importance of potential mates to the lycan population. Although, he doubted that knowledge would be enough to stop all lycans from going rogue.

Some of the ancients had formed a place called Sanctuary in northern Michigan, but he had never visited the place. He preferred to work alone, and had done so most of his life, but Sanctuary was becoming an integral part of the lycans’ existence. He had heard rumors of other states and countries setting up sanctuaries as well.

It would take time to get the reform encampments established and to discreetly get word out of their locations. The past several months, he’d become accustomed to the idea of Sanctuary and was happy there would finally be another way to keep track of rogues who were willing to reform. Up to this point in time, those who hunted the rogues had to rely on their reformants’ word and check on them as often as possible.

This made the hunters probation officers as well, and babysitting took valuable time away from threading out other savable rogues from the hopeless ones.

Sanctuary provided more than a shelter and educational tools for rogues. It provided a necessary lifting of burden off the ancients out in the field. The fact that he no longer had to keep tabs on those who had personally promised him they would change their ways was a huge relief. It had become a nearly impossible task, and had started weighing heavily on him and the other hunters.

A slight thunk and whistle alerted him that trouble was coming, and innate instinct had him jumping to the side. Unfortunately, he hadn’t reacted quick enough to avoid the arrow altogether, as it embedded in his chest just a few inches from his heart. And, thus the third problem with rogues: their careless actions were starting to alert humans to their existence.

He screamed out in fury and gripped the arrow to yank it out. Suddenly, weakness slithered through him.

Only one thing could cause him that kind of sudden weakness. The damned shaft of the arrow was iron, and touching it immediately began draining his strength. Humans figuring out lycans existed was one thing, but if they’d found out that iron was their weakness—he didn’t even want to think about the consequences of that one.

It would take only one human to believe in their existence, one persistent human who could entice others into believing, one human who could gather a group of hunters who could seriously deplete an already endangered species or even perhaps do the unthinkable—wipe the lycans’ existence from the face of the earth.

Although not lethal, the injury the arrow had caused hurt like hell, and the brief contact he’d had with the iron hadn’t helped either. He was pissed and in pain. Pain and pissed never sat well with him, and he pictured snapping the neck of the son of a bitch who had just shot him—the one he was now closing in on. He hadn’t taken the time to shift and heal his wound, refusing to allow any more advantage to the soon-to-be dead man.

He never doubted for a moment that he’d catch his man. Even the hesitation of being shot hadn’t kept him from catching up. But why would a human have taken a shot at him while he’d been in human form? With a silver-tipped arrow nonetheless? How had the man known he was a lycan and not a real human? Because he didn’t believe for a moment it had been a simple case of mistaken identity by a lone hunter. No game hunter he’d known had hunted with iron-shafted arrows tipped with silver. The extra weight of the iron shafts would have taken practice to accurately shoot—and his shooter was a precise shot. If his instincts hadn’t alerted him to the impending danger, the arrow would have gone straight through his heart.

Labored breaths gave proof that the man was tiring, and Knox smiled. Pushing the throbbing pain in his chest out of his mind, he sped up and leaped onto the man’s back. They landed hard in the snow, and he could hear a satisfying whoosh as all the air was knocked from the lungs of his attacker. When he flipped the man over, his eyes widened in shock. This was not a man at all. It was a woman.

A gorgeous woman with full lips and eyes the color of crystalline aqua water stared up at him.

Unfortunately, his surprise at her beauty, and at the fact that she was a woman, gave her all the hesitation she needed. She brought her knee up hard in his groin, and when he groaned, he swore he could feel his nuts lodged just under his tonsils. As he regained his composure and reached for her again, she slid a dagger from her boot and sliced an arc across his chest. Instinctively he reared back.

The action kept the blade from going deep, but not from cutting through his skin like butter.

She raised the dagger for another go at his chest, but he caught her wrist and squeezed until she gasped.

He could break her delicate bones easily, and he’d be a liar if he denied a small part of him didn’t want to do just that. She was determined. He’d give her that. She fought hard to maintain her grip on the hilt, but it took only a few seconds before her fingers went limp under the pressure of his fingers and the blade fell harmlessly into the deep snow beside them.

His body hardened when she squirmed under him, and he tightened his knees around her hips, effectively stilling her. She didn’t have a chance of getting loose unless he let her, and he was sure she knew that by the way her cheeks burned red with anger and her eyes spit daggers at him. He started to wonder why he was having such a strong sexual reaction to her, thinking he’d been too long without a woman if one who’d just nearly castrated him stoked his blood so quickly. A split second later that question was answered for him as two subtle scents—ones previously masked by the deer urine she was drenched in—tickled his nose.

He froze and stared down at her in wonderment. This woman carried the main scent, but she also carried the mated scent—the first of which all of his kind could detect, but the second called only to him. His nostrils flared, and his body tensed in primal need. She was his. After all of those long, lonely years thinking he would never meet her, thinking a rogue would most likely get to her before he ever would, she was here. His mate.

Mine!

His inner wolf became restless, and paced inside him growling, howling to get out, but Knox refused to let him have free rein, knowing he would not be able to control the animal from claiming what was rightfully his.

He would never harm her, never take her against her will. He’d rather die than cause her any pain. He stared at her in awe. He’d never laid eyes on her until this moment, but he already knew she was perfect.

“No!” Her eyes flew wide open, and she tried to buck him off her again with no success. “Kill me, but don’t you dare lay a finger on me, or I swear I’ll rip your heart out.”

“I’m not going to kill you or hurt you.” Her voice—scathing as it was—was like salve to a wound, calming music to his chaotic soul.

“You’re an animal! I know what your kind does. You should be dead right now. Why couldn’t you have stayed still? A monster like you deserves to die.” Her words were laced with venom and hatred.

He laughed, but quickly subdued it when her eyes flared with anger. She’d obviously come in contact with lycans before—rogue lycans by the sound of it. The urge to take her in his arms and make her forget whatever had made her hate his kind nearly made him lose his head and let her go, a mistake that would no doubt get him kneed, or worse, again.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t stand perfectly still so you could slaughter me. The nerve of me.” He teased her, but could tell she didn’t find him amusing in the least.

“Do us both a favor, and let me finish what I started.”

“First of all, it would take much more than your pathetic arrow in my heart to kill me, and secondly, I’m not a monster. I’m just like you, more or less.” The words were a little harsher than he’d intended, but he was irritated how easily she could get under his skin and make him want to act irrationally. She’d tried to kill him, and still he wanted to let her go. If he did so, she’d try to kill him again, and he’d have to subdue her—again—

and run the risk of hurting her.

If she were anyone else, he would have already knocked her unconscious, shoved her in her truck, and would at this moment be driving back to his house for a long night of questioning that may very well end up in her death. Now that he knew she was his, he’d never be able to harm her, but he wasn’t going to let her in on that information—at least not yet.

She laughed, and even though it was drenched with scorn, the sound made his heart jump for joy. He’d never expected to find his mate, but her obvious hatred for his kind did pose a bit of a problem. He laughed inwardly . A bit of a problem. She hates me, and she doesn’t even know me. Her hatred of his kind was obviously embedded deep, and he wondered if he’d be able to convince her that not all lycans were uncaring assholes.

Well, actually, come to think of it, he was an asshole, but he’d never hurt someone for that reason alone.

Suddenly, rage shot through him at the thought of her alone in the woods hunting him. What would have happened had he been a rogue? Had a rogue already hurt her in the past, or had she known someone who had been hurt by one? Was that why she hated his kind? The horrible possibilities slammed through his brain, ignited his blood to boiling, and made his gut clench in anger.

“You are nothing like I am.” She spit at him, but he dodged the spittle as it flew harmlessly in the air past his shoulder.

Her eyes burned with fiery rage. Whatever had made her hate his kind was personal. Oh yeah, that kind of hatred isn’t born of stories from others. Either she, a loved one, or both had had an unpleasant encounter with a rogue. No lycan who hadn’t gone rogue would have ever hurt her in any way.

“No offense, lady, but you don’t know me.” He didn’t particularly care for those who judged people by the actions of others, but she wasn’t just anyone, and this wasn’t your normal everyday situation.

Everyone was different, and a particular skin color, geographic area, or stereotype didn’t apply to every individual who fell into those categories. Yet could he blame her for assuming he was like all other rogue lycans if she had, in fact, only ever encountered them? Not really.

An icy sliver of dread snaked down his spine. He’d seen the results left behind by rogues. The images were forever burned into his brain, and to think that she’d been subjected to any abuse by the bastards was inconceivable.

“I know your kind, and you deserve to die.”

“I’m sorry if you’ve had bad experiences with my type”—how much did she know about his kind, he wondered—“but we aren’t all alike.” He frowned down at her.

“Let’s call it like it is. I know what you are. You are a lycan, a shape-shifter, and you are an abomination that needs to be sent back where you were spawned—hell.”

“If you know so much about lycans, then you should know that silver won’t kill us. It’s only a myth.”

“It’s served me well in the past.”

“The only reason it’s served you well is, I’m assuming”—he glanced down at the blood covering his shirt—“most of the time you are a pretty good shot.” Had he not twisted out of the way at the last second, she would have planted that arrow right in his heart. “While an arrow in the heart is capable of killing a lycan, it won’t kill him if he can change and heal the wound. The silver isn’t what would take him out. If he dies, it’s because either the wound stops the heart instantly, or he bleeds out too fast and becomes too weak to change.”

“Are you saying all of those bastards I’ve killed over the years could have survived?” Her brows drew down, and she frowned.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them did. I would have.” He wasn’t about to tell her that the real weapon was the iron shaft attached to the silver arrow. Had she succeeded in getting it through his heart, he would have been in deep shit.

Iron was a lycan’s only weakness, but even though it was a strange coincidence that the shaft had been made of iron, it had seemed simply that—a coincidence. She hadn’t said anything about the iron, and he was pretty decent at detecting deception. He hadn’t sensed her hiding anything on that front. She had no idea. If she was pissed now, he couldn’t imagine her fury at finding out she’d had the means to kill a lycan in her own two hands the whole time.

“Get off me.”

He shook his head.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Strip you naked and have my wicked way with you. “I have no idea, but I’m willing to bet that if I let you go, you’ll be back on my ass before I can say boo.” She didn’t strike him as someone who’d give up, and he didn’t miss the murderous glare in her eyes that practically screamed how bad she wanted him dead.

He again wondered what had happened to make her so bent on vengeance, but then again, he wasn’t sure if he could take knowing. His soul called to hers. Fate had made her just for him, and if someone tried to hurt her, he’d kill them without batting an eye. He had no choice but to keep her with him, as he couldn’t allow her to go back out in the woods hunting him or another lycan. He’d never let her come to harm, and eventually she would if she continued on the path she tread.

“Just let me go, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“How come I don’t believe you?”

She growled, and the predator in him clawed to the surface again. If she knew how much he wanted to claim her, she’d probably be horrified—horrified, then appalled. Then she’d try to kill him again, or at the very least, dislodge his nuts once more. He barely kept himself from wincing, the pain in his balls still tingling from the first knee he’d taken to them.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

“A deal with the devil?” She arched a dainty brow.

“If you prefer, but unlike the devil, I’ll keep my word.”

“That’s to be seen,” she said through chattering teeth.

He sighed as she shivered under him. The adrenaline of the chase had apparently begun to wear off, and she was getting cold. His body temperature ran hotter than the normal temperature of a human, so he hadn’t noticed the cold. While the black leather that encased her lithe figure was sexy as hell, she needed to get the wet clothes off and get dry and warm. The way the leather hugged every lean, toned curve of her body made his cock take notice, but he suspected he’d like her even more naked.

“You have two choices. I can put you in that truck, which you were so hell-bent on getting to, take you back to my place, and keep you locked up until I’m done working the area.” He wasn’t about to tell her that he pretty much did the same thing she did . . . hunt lycans, at least not yet anyway. “Or we can make somewhat of a truce. You trust that I won’t hurt you, promise not to try to kill me again, and we’ll stick together until it’s time for me to move on.”

He’d leave out the part where he’d never go anywhere without her again, but she didn’t need to know that at this point. If he ever wanted to have a hope in hell of convincing her to stay with him, he’d have to ease her into the idea, along with making her understand that he wasn’t a monster.

“Those aren’t really choices. That’s forcing me to do something I don’t want to do in either instance.”

“They are still choices, and not all choices in life are peachy.”

“I prefer the one where I’m not a prisoner.”

“Give me your word that you won’t try to run.”

“And you’ll believe me?” she asked before laughing.

“I have no reason not to.” He smiled when her gaze flared with anger. “Besides the fact that you tried to kill and geld me.” She would probably give him several more reasons in the next few days, hell, hours.

“Fine. I won’t run. Now can we go before I freeze to death?”

He stood up and held his hand out to her, but she refused to touch him. If he had his way, she’d be begging for his touch by the end of the week. He bent and fished the dagger out of the snow and handed it to her. She hesitated and frowned as if she were wondering if he was giving her some kind of test by giving her the weapon back before taking it and shoving it into the side of her boot.

“I already told you silver doesn’t have any effect on me.”

He kept a groan from escaping when she looked at the deep cut across his chest and raised that one haughty, dainty brow again. Obviously silver did have some effect when it was used to slice him open, but it didn’t have the effect that folklore touted. Silver didn’t burn or instantly kill lycans or have any other magnificent killing power over other materials or metals. The lycan ancients had started the myth of silver hundreds of years ago, which had proved an extremely smart maneuver, for he hadn’t run across anyone who knew about iron being their real weakness.

He’d have to shift to heal the cut and the damned hole in his chest, but he wouldn’t do so until she was safe at the house he was currently renting. He didn’t own a place of his own, had never had a reason to stay in one place for very long. However, now that he’d met his mate, he wondered if she’d want a place they could settle down in. He suppressed a snort. She hated him, and he wasn’t positive he’d be able to change that, but he would try like hell. Living with a mate who couldn’t stand the sight of him wasn’t preferable, but living without a mate at all now that he’d found her was even less appealing.

He had to find a way to get her to trust him, see him as a man and not a monster. His wolf cringed at being called a monster. He cringed at being thought of as a monster by his own mate. He and his lycan counterpart may be different on some levels, but they were merely two parts that blended into a whole. True, one was more dominant, depending on the form he was in, but when he was lycan, he didn’t turn into a half-

crazed killer. He’d never do anything in wolf form that he objected to as a man.

He followed her to the truck, not missing the scathing glare she gave him when he slid in behind the wheel. She’d given him her word she wouldn’t run, but he was no fool. Giving her an opportunity to prove to him she’d keep her word was one thing, but letting her drive was as naive as waving a loaded gun under her nose. If she decided to renege—and she most likely would at some point in time—it’d be too damned easy for her to drive them into a ditch or do something else that might put her in danger. He could handle whatever she decided to throw at him, but he wouldn’t tolerate her putting her own safety at risk.

There would be no hesitation on his part in giving his life to protect her, for his meant little in comparison to hers. He wished he could make her understand how important her existence was.

The fact that she was here, alive and breathing, gave him a drive, a force that came from deep inside, a new reason to want to live. He’d never felt the longing that now swelled inside him.

When he was younger, his zest for life had been stronger, but that had been before the years of killing and watching the deterioration of his species had wreaked havoc on him. He wouldn’t necessarily say he’d been void of feelings, but they’d been numbed—a natural barrier that had been built over time to shield against pain and growing hopelessness—and his heart had grown heavy as the suffering of his race continued throughout the years because of rogues’ careless actions.

He slid the truck seat back all the way, so his knees were no longer bunched under his chin, turned the engine over, cranked the heat up, and started for his place.