Keeping Jackie alive was harder than it looked. Trixie whispered under her breath, her words a nonstop stream of spell casting as the crowd raged. The familiar scent of her magic surrounded her. Magnolia and honeysuckle. The hum of energy covered the crowd, engulfing Jackie inside the ring. She hadn’t taken a full breath in several minutes. Having given up all pretense that she was busing the tables, she slipped toward the back of the crowd, hiding in the shadows. From the burning in her chest, her lungs were starting to feel it. But she didn’t dare hesitate.
Her eyes tracked Jackie’s movements as he fought with the ferocity of a naive kid who couldn’t afford to lose. Fury rolled off his bear-shifter opponent, promising if her eyes left the young coyote, her friend would be bleeding out within seconds.
Her throat started to ache.
The crowd went wild with cheers from Jackie’s supporters as he landed another unexpected blow. The smell of bar smoke, coppery bloodshed, and the sweaty, blinding rage from the bear’s backers created a dangerous, heady mix. All it’d take was one spark from either side, the single strike of a flint, and the whole room would go up in a fire of fists.
But Trixie couldn’t bring herself to care.
Fuck them. Fuck all of them. Every single patron here who thought violence was a sport, who wasted their money on watching innocent bodies drop onto the blood-soaked concrete, who made her and the other staff scrub the life of some poor bastard from the floor instead of using their privilege to help somebody, to do a damn bit of good in this godforsaken world. They didn’t care if they destroyed the Midnight Coyote, her, or this person she loved, so why should she shed a tear if they destroyed themselves in return?
Her mama had always said fair was fair.
Trixie muttered under her breath, her words coming in a rapid-fire hiss like a cottonmouthed snake. She felt each sting of Jackie’s wounds as her own, each hit the bear shifter landed on the coyote’s bronzed skin.
Trixie had few good things in her life. Sure, she was more fortunate than most. She knew that firsthand. She had the basics. The roof of her shithole apartment over her head, enough money for food on the occasions she could muscle up the energy to cook for one, a well-stocked, skimpy wardrobe, and a sizable hair and makeup budget. Even an old beater of a car. In the words of her patron saint, Dolly Parton, it cost a lot of money to look this cheap.
It was more than she ever had as a child.
But none of that added up to a life that felt worth living, a life of happiness and satisfaction, of feeling as if she could look forward to each day when the rooster crowed. That wasn’t the hand fate had dealt her. She knew that. Hell, she’d long since accepted it. Long before her contract with Boss. She’d made her damn peace. Life was never going to be her oyster, so there was no point in griping about it.
But she’d be damned if she let Stan, Boss, these blood-hungry patrons, anyone take this one good thing from her, this bit of brightness in an otherwise dim world.
They were getting close now, the end of the fight drawing near. The bear shifter swayed on his giant feet, bobbing and weaving like he was about to collapse. Speckles of blood dripped from his mouth and nose, coating the cage floor. He kicked a stray tooth to the edge of the ring. Thanks to her, Jackie had landed several fierce, unfaltering blows. All she needed to do was hold the bear long enough for Jackie to deliver one final uppercut to his nose. Then Stan’s precious bear’s skull would cave in. She didn’t feel the least bit of remorse about that.
If Stan and his goons could fix the fight, why couldn’t she do the same?
Despite the fear in her gut, she didn’t dare glance toward Triple S. They’d be too absorbed in their unexpected loss to notice her or the pull of her magic. But Boss would. No doubt he’d be pissed at her for interfering, but she’d caused him worse trouble before. Served him right for breaking his promise to her.
Jackie was in position now, had a clear opening.
All it’d take was one more punch.
Trixie stepped forward, away from the wall, stretching her power to her limit. She wasn’t as strong as Boss. But she could do this. She would do this. For Jackie. For herself.
Her whispers held the bear shifter. Only a second longer.
This was it.
The hard blow of some drunken idiot slammed into her, his shoulder catching against hers. She lost her balance, nearly toppling to the floor. But bless his heart, Jackie didn’t need it. He delivered the final punch she’d teed up, straight to the bear shifter’s nose. The uppercut knocked the skinhead fucker into oblivion.
Still thrumming with rage, Trixie righted herself and shoved the asshole cougar who’d nearly knocked her on her ass, hard. He stumbled back, knocking into one of Stan’s men at the exact moment the bear in the ring hit the floor. Stan’s eyes found hers.
And in an instant, all hell broke loose.
The Kamchatka bear that the cougar stumbled into let out an earsplitting roar, throwing a punch of his own. Chaos rippled outward, fueling the fight like gasoline.
Trixie’d been in her fair number of brawls, but this one was a doozy. Fighting erupted around her. Glass shattered. She snatched a spare tray off the table she’d been busing, hunkering beneath it like it was a shield as she ducked beneath a table. Somewhere in the insanity, some idiot cowboy’s gun went off, but it did little to calm the storm.
She needed to get the hell outta here—and fast.
Eyes scanning the free-for-all, she mapped a pathway to the stairs. But that was when she saw Stan crawling his way through the wreckage toward her, amber bear eyes blazing.
Shit. He knew. She didn’t know how, but he did.
And he and his Triple S-holes were going to kill her for it.
It wasn’t even a question.
Trixie yelped in fear. Scrambling from beneath the table, she used the plastic tray to shield her head. She barreled toward the stairs, diving through the brawling bodies, overturned tables, and broken bottles, nearly twisting her ankle twice in the process. To her relief, she made it to the back stairwell unscathed, only slipping when one of her heels caught the edge of a pint shard.
Righting herself, she raced upstairs with several gasps. The weight of the girls meant she wasn’t built for running. No, sir. Adrenaline coursed through her. Her pulse thumped in her temple. Her hair was going to be a fucking mess, even if her waterproof mascara stayed in place. But she’d reach the top of those stairs if it was the last thing she did, damn it.
She did finally reach the top. Trixie’s eyes darted over the scene. The brawl had traveled upstairs, leaving several tables overturned and the whole bar trashed. But the less crowded atmosphere and the swinging exit door from where some of the patrons had beat feet promised more safety.
She raced behind the bar top. If she wasn’t so spiteful, she’d have hurried her sweet little ass out to her ancient hatchback and prayed that her key (plus a hint of magic) would cause the old vehicle’s engine to turn over, but there was no way in hell she was abandoning the cash drawer and all her tips tucked beneath it. A girl needed to pay rent. Plus, once she’d let him cool down for a few days, the drawer would serve as a peace offering to Boss.
But saving Jackie’s life had been worth it.
She punched a button on the register, and the drawer sprang open. She lifted the plastic cash tray out of its nestled hold, scooping up the bills beneath it and stuffing them into her pockets. It wouldn’t be long before Stan would follow her up the stairs. Time didn’t slow for anyone, even a witch.
Slamming the empty drawer closed, she was about to hightail it out of there when a cougar shifter twice her size came flying over the bar top. Trixie let out a shriek, missing the shifter by mere inches. On the top shelf, several liquor bottles teetered before they fell to the floor and shattered. But the cougar slumped against the tap wall, unconscious. Trixie’s eyes darted to where he’d been thrown. Whoever had sent him flying had tossed the brute like he weighed no more than a rag doll.
At the sight of the culprit, she let out an unguarded squeak.
Malcolm stood on the other side of the bar, golden wolf eyes raging. Beneath his Stetson, his shadowed face was twisted with unruly rage. His muscled chest heaved from exertion, the sheen of his leather jacket catching against the neon bar lights. From the curled snarl of his upper lip, the cowboy wolf dared any other brawling piece of shit to stand in his way. Anyone who did had a death wish.
His gaze darted toward her, cold, unflinching eyes raking over her from head to toe. She felt her spine stiffen. He scowled, not bothering to say anything, before he headed toward the door. Clearly, he no longer gave two shits about her or her well-being. No surprise there.
She rolled her eyes, hefting the money drawer into her arms and scurrying after him. The big, wounded brute was Mr. Sensitive when it came to getting his feelings hurt. There were different kinds of weakness, and wallowing in the pits of hell because he didn’t have the strength to pull himself back up again was one of Malcolm’s.
She, on the other hand, had pulled herself up by the pointy heels of her stiletto pumps, and she had no intention of being pushed back down again. He likely thought her brittle in her cynicism, but it took true balls to brush herself off and keep fighting after she’d been knocked down time and again. Brooding was easy. Surviving wasn’t.
The sound of several patrons laid flat and groaning, along with the muffled chaos from belowstairs, was the only noise that cut through the silence. From the bottom of the stairwell, a shout rang out. Stan. Or one of his idiot goons at least.
Shit.
She wasn’t fast enough. In these heels, she’d never reach her car and get the thing started in time. She needed to hide, but with half the damn tables overturned, the only place was right out in the open behind the…
“Malcolm!” she hissed after him.
He hesitated momentarily but didn’t turn to look at her. He must have decided that whatever had caused his stride to hitch, she wasn’t worth it, because a second later, he kept going. Damn it.
“Malcolm, you big, burly idiot!” she whispered after him. “I’ve put up with enough of your shit and stayed till closing for you enough times that you could at least answer me.”
An annoyed growl rumbled from the wolf shifter, but he cast a glance over his shoulder. “What?” The biting chill in his voice shouldn’t have frustrated her. But it did.
How could he kiss her with more passion than any man she could conjure in her dreams and then act like the thought of it didn’t keep him awake at night? For her, it certainly had. More than once. But she supposed the ache in her heart when she looked at him didn’t mean anything. Not for him anyway. It never did for men in her past. That was how she’d been stupid enough to end up in her contract—wrongly thinking someone cared for her.
She wasn’t the kind of woman a man took home with him.
“Stand guard over me,” she said, pushing any sentimentality aside and slipping back behind the bar top, “or divert attention at least.”
If Malcolm stood near the bar edge, she doubted Stan or any of the Triple S-holes would try to push past him. She slipped the cash drawer into the small gap underneath the dish sink. She’d need to squeeze herself into the cramped space between there and the mini fridge, but she hadn’t spent all those years trying to meditate her way to happiness and find her center doing yoga for nothing.
“And why the fuck would I do that?” Malcolm growled again.
Trixie huffed, rolling her eyes as she started to duck behind the lacquered wood. “Out of the kindness of your brooding, bleeding heart?” The voices of the Triple S drew closer, growing louder with each green and pink flash of the cracked jukebox screen as they approached the top of the stairs.
Malcolm moved to turn away from her again.
“Please!” she pleaded, for once allowing the fear she felt to slip into her voice. “You may not like me, but I don’t deserve to die.”
Malcolm glanced toward her then, golden wolf eyes searing in their intensity. She wanted him to counter that claim, say he did like her, more than either of them would be willing to admit. But he didn’t. That’d be far too easy, and she knew better than to think anything in her life would be tied up with a perfect, pretty bow other than the stitches of her G-string.
“Why’d you fix the fight?” he asked.
The abrupt question caught her off guard. Now hardly seemed like the time for that, but the answer tumbled from her painted lips before she could think it through. “Jackie’s always been kind to me. Never pulled any bullshit. He looks at me like I’m a person, not some sexy plaything meant for his amusement.”
Her eyes met Malcolm’s, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw a hint of pity. The thought nearly killed her. She didn’t need anyone’s pity. His especially.
“Satisfied?”
Malcolm watched her for a beat. “No.” He turned to leave again.
But Trixie could hear Stan coming down the hallway. The distinct cadence of his accented voice carried. Her pulse raced. She didn’t think.
“Walk out that door, and whatever information I have about you and your stupid pack dies with me,” she threatened.
That got his attention.
He’d no doubt find Stan’s little lupus comment from earlier intriguing.
Malcolm snarled. “You’re bluffing.”
“Want to risk it?” She held his gaze for a prolonged beat, only breaking the standoff at the last second when the door from the basement burst inward. Time-out. She ducked behind the counter, folding herself into the small space and praying to Dolly, Patsy, and whatever witchy goddess had made twenty-four-hour lipstick to save her. She dug her heels into the hardwood flooring, urging them not to slip on the floor’s sheen as she held her place.
The sound of a single pair of shitkicker boots drew closer, calmly making their way across the bar’s wooden boards. Trixie tensed. Closing her eyes, she shivered but didn’t allow herself to move, to even breathe. Whatever happened, she’d get through this. She always did. Even if it was by the skin of her teeth.
“Who the fuck are you?” Stan’s voice accused.
Trixie’s whole body sagged with relief when she heard Malcolm’s graveled voice answer back. “No one.” Thanks to her magic, the subtext of that statement rang clear inside her head.
No one you want to fuck with.
She bit her lips and smiled to herself. Reluctant hero he might be, but Malcolm wasn’t going to leave her to the wolves…or bears, as it were. He had that going for him at least.
“You see that blond bartender bitch cut through here?” The hatred in those words was palpable. Her magic hissed. She’d been called it all before, and Stan likely wouldn’t be the last. America had no respect for strong women.
“She went that way,” Malcolm grumbled, likely nodding toward the door.
Trixie winced. Real original, sugar.
No one had ever called the Grey Wolf executioner a smooth talker.
A silent beat passed, so filled with tension Trixie struggled to keep her breathing quiet.
“You two watch over this asshole,” Stan finally ordered his men. “We’ll find that bitch again, and when we do, don’t hesitate. End her.”
A moment later, she heard the distinct creak of Stan and three of his guys shuffling over the fluted brass floor separator at the entry door. But she and Malcolm were far from being in the clear.
The bear shifters would be back, and then…
“You’re hugging pretty close to that bar top.” The asinine comment came from one of Stan’s men. Whoever it was, she heard him start to draw closer, as if to push past Malcolm and right near her hiding place. A few steps behind the bar top and they’d find her there—and if they did, she was dead. Stan had said as much.
One of Malcolm’s large boots hit the floor as he blocked the other man’s way.
Trixie’s pulse raced.
A bearlike growl sounded. “Move out of my way, fuck-face.”
“No.”
She didn’t know there could be such cold fury in a single word. Malcolm didn’t need to growl or snarl for his point to be driven home.
“I’ll give you one warning not to touch me again. I suggest you listen.”
Trixie tensed.
“And if I don’t?”
She could practically hear the sneer in the bear shifter’s voice, the false bravado and confidence. But it was Malcolm’s answer that chilled her.
“I’ll bash your skull in.”
Trixie stiffened. There wasn’t even a hint of a lie in those words. He meant it.
He’d do that to a man for her.
She was certain she should feel more horrified by that, but she didn’t.
The bear shifter laughed.
Trixie closed her eyes, silently pleading with the idiot not to be dumb enough to touch Malcolm again. But it was a worthless prayer. The moron lasted all of two seconds. The sound of cracking bone rang through the bar along with the sound of the two shifters scuffling and the shout of the other guard. Not far from where she hid, the distinct thud of a limp body landed beside her, followed by the other guard’s repeated shouts.
“Shit!” he roared.
A loud clang followed, and a moment later, the fire extinguisher rolled to where she remained lodged between the sink and the mini fridge. Its base was covered in blood. From the corner of her eye, she could see a limp hand from where the body had landed. She dared peek out, only to be certain it wasn’t Malcolm, and then instantly regretted it.
It wasn’t.
Trixie clapped her hand over her mouth, struggling not to scream. There was violence and then there was carnage. A major difference. She whimpered.
He had, in fact, bashed the bear’s head in. With a fire extinguisher no less.
A wolflike snarl rang out, harsh and feral, followed by the scrape of paws and claws against polished wood. Trixie closed her eyes, shaking and silent where she hid as Malcolm finished fighting his opponents. She’d never get used to the bloodshed, feeling every true emotion that came with it. The fear, the rage, the hatred. The only comfort that eventually came to her rescue was the silence that finally followed, and then a cold, wet wolf nose brushing against her face as it sniffed her.
Her eyes shot open. A massive beast stood before her. She’d dated plenty of wolf shifters, had even seen them shift, but never a Grey Wolf and never this close before. Trixie swallowed down her fear in favor of the mixture of surprise and awe that coursed through her. It was a wolf that stood before her, large, predatory, but the eyes were distinctly his.
Malcolm.
His muzzle dripped with blood. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to touch him, the dry spot of fur at his neck. The soft, bristled texture was both foreign and somehow distinctly his. Not at all like the monster she thought he’d be. No matter how violent and fierce.
She’d never be afraid of him.
At her touch, he grumbled, low in his throat in a way that was all too familiar, before he retreated. A moment later, the air around the wolf seemed to bend and shift, extending, changing, and then a pair of bare male human legs replaced her view.
Malcolm didn’t say anything. Just stepped toward the sink beside her, turning the faucet on. She heard him splash some water on his face casually, cleaning the blood from his mouth before he pulled on his clothes again.
As if he hadn’t killed two men without even a blink. No pity. No remorse.
Slowly, Trixie eased out from her hiding place.
“You okay?” he asked gruffly. His voice was even more graveled than normal, more wolf than man.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
He nodded to the floor beside her, where she was distinctly trying not to let her eyes stray. “Don’t look,” he warned.
“I already made that mistake.” Bile stung the back of her throat.
If the carnage bothered Malcolm, he didn’t show it. He shrugged back into his shirt and then his leather before replacing his Stetson, fully dressed again. His fallen clothes had barely gotten any blood spray. The Grey Wolf executioner killed quickly. Brutally and efficiently. She supposed with his reputation, that fit, but she didn’t want to think about it too hard.
She was still struggling to breathe. “You…you killed a man for—”
“I didn’t do it for you.” Malcolm pegged her with a hardened stare.
“Of course you didn’t.”
A part of her wondered if he meant to protect her conscience from it, but if he did, it was a lost cause. They both knew it was a lie. At least in part, but Trixie didn’t bother to acknowledge that. She felt some softened part inside herself tense and brace again at the tension. It was going to be like that between them again then. Nothing different.
She shouldn’t be surprised. It shouldn’t hurt, but if shouldn’ts were money, she’d be a rich woman. She had more than enough of them, especially for one night.
Trixie left the cash drawer hidden underneath the bar, fully abandoning it as she rounded the bar top. She could tell Boss where it was later. No one would find it there, and at least she’d nabbed her tips. That was what really mattered. Around them, the bar was in shambles, broken glass everywhere, tables overturned, and the kind of eerie stillness that came only after total chaos.
Beneath one of the booths, Trixie spotted Dani, pale-faced and shaking. Poor girl. She’d seen everything. Navigating through the wreckage, Trixie crossed the room before she crouched down beside the other woman. Dani flinched at her touch.
“You didn’t see any of that,” Trixie whispered, stroking a glowing finger against Dani’s cheek. She used the last of her magic to alter the other woman’s truth.
Dani nodded dumbly, eyes wide and magic-struck. A moment later, she looked around with a startled blink. “What happened?”
Trixie smiled slow and sweet. “Don’t worry about it, sugar. Boss’ll come get you soon. Just stay right there, okay?”
Dani seemed to think this was a good idea. “Okay.” She nodded.
Trixie rose to her feet, heading toward the door, but Malcolm blocked her way.
“You can alter memories,” he said.
The unspoken question hung in the air.
Have you done that to me?
“I can manipulate truths. Seek them out, find them, change them. Truth is my thing,” she said pointedly. “It’s easier in humans. Doesn’t work on shifters.”
From the spark in his dark eyes, he seemed surprised by that. “You also fix bar fights.”
She shrugged, trying to ignore the mess around them. In a few days’ time, she’d no doubt pay for it. Someone would have to clean up. “On occasion,” she answered. “But stuff like that drains me quick. Not my specialty.” She eyed him up and down. “What deal were you making with Boss tonight anyway?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Pack business.”
“Revenge or defense?”
He lifted a brow like he was surprised she could see straight through him.
“You don’t get that heated up unless it’s about Bo,” she explained.
“Both,” he answered. “For him and another friend.”
She nodded. “Hope it was worth it then.”
And she meant it. She’d liked Bo. Had mourned him in her own way. Truly. And she may not have known his other friend, but that didn’t stop her from feeling sorry for Malcolm’s newest loss. At least this time, he hadn’t let it break him.
Without another word, she moved to brush past him, eager to leave. She needed to get the hell out of there before Stan came back and found his men dead, but Malcolm wasn’t having it.
He stepped in front of her path again. “Tell me what you know about my pack.”
Trixie glanced out toward the night, to the open doors and the stretching stars of Idaho’s midnight skies and the orange glow of the streetlamps. Maybe her car would start. Maybe she’d make it home in one piece. But it wouldn’t be hard for a guy like Stan to find her apartment if he asked around. Where did she go from there?
She shook her head. “No. Not till you get me to safety, darlin’, and that ain’t here.”
Malcolm scowled. The gold of his wolf eyes had settled now, slowly shifting back to a brown so dark that the moonlight painted them near black. Two deep, midnight pools. Like he carried a hint of the night’s shadows in his pocket with him. His gaze fell to her again. “Follow me,” he said, finally relenting.
He led her out into the night, the faint outline of the mountains barely a shadow in the distance. They cut through several alleys near the Coyote, the ripe smell of the nearby businesses’ garbage-filled dumpsters permeated the autumn air. A soft breeze ruffled her hair as Trixie breathed a sigh of relief.
Malcolm only stopped once they’d reached a large Harley, chained and locked far from the citrusy glow of the streetlights. He reached into the bike’s saddlebag, trading his black Stetson for a helmet before shoving a spare at her.
She stared at the protective gear but didn’t take it.
“You got a problem with helmets?” he mumbled. He mounted the bike, lifting its hefty weight upright with ease.
“I’ve got a problem with helmet hair, that’s all.”
“You look fine.”
Fine. Not good. Not great. Fine.
Even after all the insanity of the evening, she had to admit that stung a bit.
“Not a single fake eyelash or tit out of place.” His gaze darted to the girls.
In the midst of the melee, the already low neckline of her top had been twisted sideways, revealing a hint of the leopard-print bra she wore beneath.
She straightened herself while shooting him an incredulous look. “Excuse you, but these are real, asshole.” She gestured to her ample chest like she was Vanna White. “I may look fake, but I’m real where it counts,” she said. Another Dolly quote.
No one spoke truer to her heart than country music’s queen.
She snatched the stupid helmet from his hand, jamming the hideous gear onto her head. Immediately, she felt her curls fall flat, but she didn’t so much as bat one of her very real eyelashes before she sauntered over to him. She swung her leg over the Harley, settling onto the back seat pad as she wrapped her arms around him. She knew exactly where to place her high-heeled feet.
“Now shut up and ride toward I-90.”