Last Wolf Standing. Rhyannon Byrd

the fetal position and tried again to focus on the blurry shadows crashing around her room. Three twisting figures were fighting with inhuman strength, growling…snarling…biting out virulent curses as they destroyed her furniture. Bodies slammed into one another with preternatural force as they battled for dominance, coarse grunts followed by the sickening sounds of crushed cartilage and tearing flesh. Torrance squinted, certain she had just seen a human arm sporting an amazingly wicked set of claws but couldn’t hold the image. A quick, sharp cracking noise, like a snapping bone, came from the other side of her bed, and her stomach churned at the revolting sound.

      Then the sound of broken glass hit her ears, followed by a familiar voice shouting into the small alley between her apartment building and the neighboring one. “That’s right, run now, but next time we find you, you’re dead!”

      Torrance blinked against the salty sting of sweat running into her eyes, and for the first time she got a clear look at her rescuer’s face as he dropped to his knees beside her, one unsteady, blood-splattered hand reaching out to check her pulse at the side of her throat.

      “It’s you!” she gasped, sounding groggy, positive she could hear the other one, who had shouted out her window, snickering off somewhere on the other side of the room.

      “Shh. Just take it easy,” he rasped, staring down at her, his expression fierce and brutally hard with lingering traces of violence and rage, a warm glow burning in his oddly lit gaze. Animal ferocity, predatory and wild, rode the long lines of his body, and there was something different about his eyes, she thought hazily. They seemed more golden than brown, smoldering with a primitive, provocative intensity that made her feel…uncomfortably sensitive—and suddenly Torrance was aware of being cradled against the strongest chest she’d ever felt.

      Oh…whoa.

      Hot, comforting heat surrounded her, pressing her against solid muscle and strong sinew outlined beneath a sweat-damp T-shirt. Torrance wanted to moan at the feel of all that hard, unyielding masculinity holding her close, but bit back the sound. Instead, she focused at first on trying not to pass out, and then on the voices, listening to the rich, husky tones, the rhythm and pitch of their speech patterns, so rugged and male. Trying not to groan from the pain in her head, she lay silent as the one named Jeremy spoke to the man holding her within the strong, possessive circle of his arms.

      “I took a quick look around the building, but there’s not a soul around right now,” Jeremy was saying. “Kinda creepy, but at least there won’t be any cops on their way, and I’ve got her door back up on the frame. A good breeze would knock it over, but it will fool anyone who might pass by until we can get outta here.”

      Strong, infinitely capable fingers pushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears, her braid a pitiful wreck. “It’ll have to do for now,” he rasped.

      “How’s she doing?”

      Callused fingertips stroked gently over her forehead, across the tops of her cheekbones, the careful touch so at odds with the raw-edged power she could feel pulsing off him in hot, potent waves. “She’s pretty shaken up, but Simmons didn’t bite her,” he growled, that deep, whispery baritone ragged and hoarse. “The bastard must have been here all along, waiting for her when she got home. How the hell did he track her down so fast?”

      “Come on, you know what kind of connections he’s got. If she frequents that restaurant often enough, he could have slunk in there after we left and had her name like that,” the blond argued, snapping his fingers—an unmistakable thread of frustration lacing his words. “Then once Simmons knew who she was, all he’d have to do is hack her information off the Net. The whole thing could have happened in minutes.”

      Mason made some low, noncommittal sound deep in his throat, sounding unconvinced as he ran his big, warm hands over her body. Torrance tried to control her shiver and failed, while his delicious scent, like something wicked and sinful that she could almost taste on her tongue, filled her head, crowding out the raw smells of meat and blood and fear.

      There was something wrong here, she knew, but she mentally shoved the irritating thought away, her body finding too much enjoyment being in his arms. If she thought too hard about things, she would have to move…and that just wouldn’t do.

      “There’s no such thing as privacy anymore, man.” Through her barely parted lashes, Torrance watched Jeremy plant his hands on his hips and glare at Mason. “Who knows what he used. At this point, it doesn’t really matter, Mase. We’ve got a much bigger problem on our hands. It’s daylight outside,” the blond muttered, gesturing at the pale light beyond the broken window. “He fully changed without night. You know what this means?”

      “It means this isn’t your run-of-the-mill Bloodrun,” Mason grunted, still checking her for injuries. A hot, rough palm traveled up her side, feeling her ribs, coming deliciously close to the outer curve of one breast. If it didn’t still hurt to breathe, she’d have shifted, just a bit, and gotten that strong hand where she wanted it.

      “Yeah, among other things,” his friend bit out. “It means there’s something a hell of a lot bigger than meat lust going on here, partner. No way in hell should someone Simmons’s age be able to dayshift into his full form, even if he is as friggin’ pure-blood as they come. And why couldn’t we smell him out on the street? If we hadn’t heard her scream, we wouldn’t have even known he was here and he was practically sitting under our noses.”

      “I don’t know what’s going on with his scent. I can smell him in here, but the musk is lighter than it should be and there’s something sharp mixed with it that’s burning my nose.” His hand paused as he turned his head to look toward the blond. “And I don’t care when he can change, or how goddamn powerful he is. When we finally get him, he’s going to pay for touching her.”

      Jeremy remained silent for a moment, and then she heard, “Are you going to explain to her what we are?”

      What we are? What did that…

      In the next instant, forgotten images came rushing back as Torrance suddenly recalled the forgotten piece of the puzzle.

      Before Mason could answer Jeremy’s question, Torrance scrambled off his lap, her movements awkward and uncoordinated as terror rushed through her, weakening her limbs.

      “I already know what you are.” The hoarse words left her lips on a soft whoosh of air, barely more than a whisper—and the realization she’d been trying to push away came roaring back, blindsiding her with the force of a kick to the chest.

      Mason watched her with a calm intensity as she scooted away on her hands and feet, crab-crawling until her back pressed up against a corner of the room. “Do you now?” he asked quietly, moving with the sleek power of a predator as he gained his feet.

      “How did you find me?” She could hear the panic grabbing at her throat, making her voice sound hollow and husky. “What are you doing here?”

      At the sound of her fear, his expression closed, like a veil being pulled over a window, filtering out the light. “I doubt you’re going to believe me, but I followed you to keep you safe. I was watching the building when I heard you scream.”

      “I saw claws,” Torrance said shakily, pulling her gaze away from him to cast a quick look around the room, unable to believe the destruction. Her once cozy, comfortable bedroom now resembled a slaughterhouse—her white bedding a gory sea of red, a blood-spattered closet door hanging at an odd angle…like a broken limb, window and blinds broken where the monster had made his escape. “You’re a goddamn werewolf, aren’t you? Just like him!”

      His head tilted a fraction as he studied her, dark eyes impossible to read. “Not exactly like him.”

      “But those were your claws that I saw, right?” she all but shouted, fisting her blood-covered hands at her sides. “When you were fighting off…whatever his name was.”

      “Simmons. His name is Anthony Simmons. And they could have been either mine or Jeremy’s.” His broad shoulders lifted in a casual