Page 4 of Resisted

“Where?”

Like I fucking knew. “I haven’t got that far yet, pup.”

“I’m not a pup anymore. She’s younger than I am,” Boyce pointed out.

“But she’s a baby,” Vince mumbled as he reached for her. “Just a baby.”

If I had to guess, she was probably about two, but it made no difference. She was so damn young, and if she’d spent the rest of her life with poachers or sold off as a side piece, I doubted she would’ve ever made it to eighteen. “I’m sure someone in town will take her.”

Vince started walking toward the truck, the bundle held tight. “Your mom always wanted a girl, you know.”

Yeah, that. Something I’d been reminded of too many times to count. “My mom it is then.”

We left the poacher’s bodies to rot on the forest floor, which was way more generous than men like them deserved. Our mate’s body we wrapped in a blanket and carried back with us. We would burn her and release her to the fates at the first chance we got. She would be an offering, a promise, a hope that in future journeys, we would do better. Pay closer attention, not let our wolves have so much control. In the future, we would not fail.

Chapter 2

VINCENT

Five years later

“I’m not a babysitter,”I said for the thousandth time. Not like anyone around me listened. The fuckers all intentionally went deaf the moment I spoke, pretending not to hear my objections. I was aware it was only for a few hours, but my experience with kids was close to nothing and it wasn’t like I was the best influence.

“We will be back by midnight, maybe shortly after,” Silas’ mother, Margret, announced as she picked up the ugly monstrosity she called a purse. “She should go to bed by eight.”

Nope. We didn’t do bedtimes, not with me in charge. If she wanted her in bed by eight, then Silas should’ve been the one babysitting, not me. I was a night owl, an insomniac, a person who just didn’t do a bedtime.

“It’s not that hard, man. Bedtime is like three hours away.” Boyce clapped me on the back before he pulled open the front door, a grin plastered on his face.

One day, I was going to give him a beatdown. The fucker was pushing me a little too far. Usually, I was an easygoing guy, but any jest about me being stuck on babysitting duty while they go out and enjoy the town festivities deserved a good beating. Was I planning to go? No, but that wasn’t the point. The point was I chose not to attend these things because I didn’t want to be around people, not because I wished to be stuck with a rabid seven-year-old with the energy of a little tiny squirrel who ate its dinner out of the sugar bowl.

The door slammed closed behind them, and I stood staring at it, already panicking. I was used to hanging around the kid, since we always visited between assignments. I was just never left alone with the tiny being. I never wanted to be. She reminded me of that night every damn time I looked at her. She reminded me of loss and loneliness and a whole lot of other emotions I didn’t want to examine.

“Do you want to play with dolls?” a small voice asked from behind me.

I didn’t bother to turn toward it when I answered. “No.”

“Tea party?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Play-Doh?”

“No.”

“You’re not as fun as you look, Vincent.” She said my name with a bit of venom to it.

“It’s Vince,” I replied.

“Vincent,” she snarled, and when I turned around, the girl stood with her arms crossed over her chest, a glare pulling her brows together.

“I’ll have you know, you’re the only lady who doesn’t find me fun.” I smirked, knowing the joke would go way over the runt’s head.

But I hadn’t expected her to rise to the occasion like dealing out insults was second nature. “Some ladies settle out of desperation.” That one stung a bit, I’d admit. “What about coloring? You can show me how you colored your arms.”

I stared down at the little blonde devil, wondering if our mate had lived, would she have been just like this? A spitfire that had us all wrapped around her littlest finger? I sighed, and Bella only quirked an eyebrow as she waited for me to cave. I would cave, of course. I always did when it came to her, but I preferred to make her sweat a little. Or maybe it was me. Maybe I was the one sweating under the violent stare of the little seven-year-old shifter.

“You want tattoos?” I questioned.

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