Page 6 of The Alpha's Protective Mate

“The who?” I ask innocently.

“Don’t play games with us, girl.” The heftier one of them takes a menacing step toward me. “We know he’s—” He cuts himself off abruptly. “I know you. You’re from our clan. Mack, isn’t this Beruth’s daughter? You don’t remember me? Droga!”

A cold ball of fear forms in my chest.

I know him. He grew up with me.

Now that I think about it, the small scar on his right cheek does look familiar.

Droga snickers. “Well, well. And here I thought you were dead this whole time, maggots having feasted on your worthless flesh.”

My hand tightens around the scalpels in my hand, and my body tenses. Droga was among my worst bullies. He was one of Clyde’s followers and took my older brother’s lead, tormenting me as much as he could. He and Clyde once broke my leg and threw me down an old well in the woods around our compound. I had been there for days, starved and close to death when I was rescued. But my father just shrugged and told me that if I had not been a defective creature, I would have managed to get out of there myself.

As a result, I’ve never liked confined spaces.

That incident was just one of many. As we grew up and my figure developed, my brother and Droga did a lot worse to me.

“What do you want?” My nose wrinkles in disgust as I hide my fear.

His eyes run down my body, the lust in them obvious. “The Alpha you’re hiding, for starters. And then you and I are going to have some fun, like old times.”

I don’t hesitate, slashing out with the scalpel. He wasn’t expecting it, and I get him in the throat. He clutches his neck, staggering back in surprise. His companion, Mack, jumps toward me, but I duck, avoiding his blow.

I may not be as strong as a vampire, but I’ve taken plenty of self-defense and other classes to make sure I’m never defenseless again. Of course, none of the instructors ever considered that I might be up against supernatural beings.

I whip the scalpel around, nicking Mack in the arm. My eyes dart to Droga, and I know I need to finish the job before his neck heals. I move toward him, but my path is blocked by Mack. He punches me in the face, and I go flying backward, falling against the door, crying out in pain.

My left eye is swelling, and I can’t see much from it.

As he towers over me, I hear a snarl, and a large wolf breaks through the glass door over my head. I hear Mack scream as Robert tears out his stomach. I don’t have time to be sick, because as I struggle to get to my feet, I see Droga running at me. I move to the side, avoiding his attack, and without thinking, I slam both scalpels into the back of his neck and yank them in opposite directions.

He makes a choking sound and falls flat on his face.

The wolf jumps on him, bites into the remaining part of his throat, and rips off his head completely.

Seeing Droga’s head rolling away from me, I feel nauseous. At the same time, there is also a dark satisfaction within me.

He’s dead.

After so many years of unspeakable torment, he’s finally dead.

A small, vicious part of me wishes he had suffered more.

But at least he died knowing I had a hand in it.

The wolf moves toward me, and I stiffen. He doesn’t attack me, though, simply sniffing me. Not deeming me a threat, he gives me a small lick on the face and then collapses in my arms.

For a moment, I sit there, stunned, my heart racing.

I don’t have the first clue what to do about the bloodbath in the street right in front of the shelter, the bodies on the ground. And what am I supposed to do with the unconscious wolf in my arms?

Taking a few deep breaths, I look down at the wolf and then mutter, “First things first. Hide the wolf. Then hide the bodies. And then—”

My mind goes blank after that.

Do I need a shovel? Should I take the bodies to the woods and bury them? How am I supposed to get them there? Can’t very well bring them on the bus, now, can I?

God, I hope Ricky doesn’t show up before I’ve dealt with all this!

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