Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(80)

I have to clamp my jaw shut not to call her back. I’m almost there. Lane’s unarmed and—

A flash of silver.

He has a knife.

“Storm!” I scream, which is not a command, not a goddamn command at all. “Come! Storm, come!”

The knife slashes. Blood sprays onto snow, and I scream again. Then something bursts from the forest. A blur of gray. I’m only ten feet away, close enough to see what it is. The wolf.

He grabs Lane’s arm. His teeth clamp down, but the young man’s wearing a thick parka, and the wolf only hangs there. He bites hard enough to startle Lane into dropping the knife, though. Lane realizes there’s a hundred-pound wolf hanging off his shoulder, and he screams, kicking and punching.

I’m there. Finally there. I ram the flashlight into my pocket, holster my gun, and grab Storm’s collar to drag her back. I ignore Lane. I know he’s my target, but there’s blood in the snow, and it belongs to my dog, and that’s what matters. The wolf can take Lane for all I care.

Lane and the wolf fight, battling with growls and grunts and gasps of pain. Storm whines, her body trembling as I run my hands along it. She flinches when I find the spot where the knife went in, but she doesn’t stop straining to see the fight, nudging me out of the way when I block her view.

The blade sliced her left shoulder. Her fur is wet and sticky with blood, and I tug out the flashlight for a look. It’s a slice, not a stab, and as I palpate the wound, she huffs in annoyance more than pain, Mom fussing over a scraped knee when her child just wants to run back onto the playground. That reassures me even before I get a good look at what is indeed a flesh wound, a shallow slice maybe two inches long. It’ll need stitches, and I’m sure as hell not letting her jump into the fight, but she’s all right.

I see Dalton then. He’s circling Lane and the wolf, looking for an opening. His knee gives a little when he feints too fast, telling me Lane really did give it a solid kick. The wolf and Lane are squaring off, circling each other, Dalton outside looking for a way in.

Looking for a way to get between Lane and the wolf.

Oh, hell, no.

I pull my gun. “Lane! Get on the fucking ground, and we’ll take care of the wolf.”

Lane’s gaze darts my way.

“You heard me!” I bark. “On the ground now.”

He spins and kicks at Dalton, aiming for his wounded knee, and rage fills me, the kind of rage that let me shoot Blaine Saratori, the kind that had me put a bullet through Val’s head. But I learn. Each time, I learn because I can never pull this trigger and not question afterward. With Blaine, I have every reason to question. I made a mistake. With Val, I did not, but I still suffer for it, wonder if there’d been a way to protect Dalton without killing her.

This time, there is no question. Dalton isn’t in lethal danger—Lane is just really, really pissing me off, trying to literally throw Dalton to the wolves.

So I shoot, but it’s aimed over them. The gunfire startles Lane, and it warns Dalton, and between the two, Lane’s kick is aborted as Dalton dodges. Lane comes out running as he tears into the forest. The wolf starts to go after him, and my idiot lover leaps between them.

“No!” Dalton shouts, startling the wolf, which skids to a halt.

Dalton’s bigger than Lane, and he’s making himself bigger still, puffed up, gun out, shouting at the wolf. Personally, I’d let the damned beast go after the bastard, but this is why, no matter which roles we play best, the “good cop” is the guy in front of me.

The canine stands his ground but shows no sign of attacking. Storm is fine, and her attacker is gone, and the wolf himself seems all right. He approaches Storm, stiff-legged, and we let them do the sniff-greeting again. Of course, he’s hoping for a reward from his rescued damsel, but this time, as soon as he sniffs behind her, she snarls and spins away, and after one more halfhearted try, he lopes into the forest.

“Sorry!” I say. “No reward sex for you.” I turn to Dalton. “And definitely none for you. What the hell was that? Coming between a confessed killer and a wolf?”

He pauses and then says, “I was worried about the wolf.”

“Right answer.” I lift up to peck his cheek. “Even if it’s utter bullshit, and you just saw a dangerous situation and decided to play hero by leaping into the middle of it.”

“I didn’t actually leap in. I was looking for a way to break it up.”

“Refereeing a wolf fight?” I shake my head. “I don’t think the wolf would have listened. Hell, I don’t think either of them would have.” I look in the direction Lane went. “So I guess we’re stuck tracking him.”

“Is Storm okay?”

He bends to pet the dog, and I hand him the flashlight and point out the damage.

“I should stitch her,” I say, “but we have surgical strips in our packs at camp. That’ll do. We just need some way to mark this spot so we can pick up Lane’s trail after.”

Dalton digs into his pocket, and I’m about to point out that tying a marker to a tree won’t work at night. Instead he pulls out a package of surgical strips.

“The man comes prepared,” I say as I take them.

“Do I get reward sex for that?”

“You just might. Now hold her steady while I clean the wound and plaster it shut.”