Page 2 of Ruthlessly Mated (Shared Mates #2)

I get up and look out the window, gazing toward the docks. It’s hard to make out entirely, but I am pretty sure I see the flatbed. It still looks flat. Dammit.

I take a sip of my drink. A long sip. Okay, I basically down half of it.

The unloading is taking far too long for my liking.

I’d be out on the dock myself, helping and watching, but I’ve got my eyes out there as it is and I’ve been soaked to the bone on the boat.

The ocean never stays in the ocean. It likes to splash over the sides of the boat and quite often even goes so far as to fall from the sky.

Right now, I need a fire, high-proof alcohol, and a few minutes in relative comfort. I just have to relax. I’ve got a port seal, and that’s my ticket out of here. I am so impressed with myself. I did that so smoothly. It was practically professional.

The drink starts to hit my stomach and seep out through the rest of my body. It makes me feel warm and languid and before I know better, my eyes are feeling heavy. I force myself to stay awake. Nothing would be more dangerous than falling asleep in this den of iniquity.

I reach into my pocket, pull out some Zip, and snort it. Hard.

The buzz is immediate. I am instantly more awake than I would be if I slept a thousand days. It doesn’t get you high, it just gets you clear. Focused. It’s not like I was going to get to rest any time soon anyway. Okay. Maybe it gets you a little high. Maybe it gives you a hell of a kick.

Alright. Now I look high, which is actually an improvement. There’s plenty of other jittery people around the place. I’m blending in. It’s good. It’s perfect. It’s making the time seem to go even slower, but you can’t win everything.

I think about joining one of the coin games. Might take my mind off things. Might help me blend in better.

Just as I’m trying to work out what to do with myself, the door swings open and three big men enter.

They’re all wearing black leather of various kinds with gold wolf skull details.

I notice them immediately, both because I am paying attention to everything going on here, and because the Zip means that absolutely everything is screaming at me, every light, motion, and sound leaping into my various cortexes.

They also have the kind of presence that draws attention. I stare at them, not worrying if I appear rude. Who cares if I am rude. I am a criminal in a criminal hangout. Rudeness is going to make me fit right in. Everybody is staring at these people.

Long thick curling hair shadows the leader’s face.

He’s broad and strong and wearing two munitions belts across his chest in an X pattern.

I have to assume the weapons they’re for are underneath the long leather coat.

His deep hazel-green eyes scan the room like he’s daring someone to breathe wrong.

Menacing. That’s the best description I could possibly come up with.

Behind him, a tall man with short blond hair who has the features and stature of a Viking is also scanning the room.

They’re looking for something. Or someone.

This guy is wearing a beige plaid waistcoat with matching pants.

It’s an outfit that might look nerdy or outdated on most people, but it looks absolutely incredible on him.

He has a swimmer’s body, or a dancer’s build.

Both. Narrow waist, thick ass, big shoulders.

He looks like he could dance the night away or massacre a small army.

His features are faintly aquiline and quite aristocratic.

His hair is styled impeccably. He looks like the only real adult in the room, in a sense.

Like everyone else here is a silly little criminal playing silly criminal games.

I almost don’t notice the third man in the group, but that’s not because he’s not striking.

It’s because he has the bearing of a shadow.

He has dark hair, dark eyes, and a scar running over the bridge of his nose.

He hangs back, lets the first two draw all the attention.

He puts space between them and him, and he’s wearing plain black attire.

There’s almost nothing to indicate he matters as much as I instinctively know he must. He is giving off big don’t-come-near-me energy. I can respect that.

I let my eyes pan away, planning to ignore them. I know if I keep looking at them, there’s some chance they’ll look back at me, and I already know that would be bad for some reason that is circling my gut under the alcohol and drug.

Even though I’m no longer looking in their direction, I can still feel their presence. It’s like the entire room is a big piece of fabric extending from my body and they are weights rolling through it. They’re tugging on me in some intangible way.

The table next to me clears miraculously, and they sit at it.

What the fuck is happening. I am starting to get tense. My senses are tingling. Something is wrong. Fuck. Fuck.

I draw back into the shadows as much as I can, try to make myself smaller and even less worthy of notice.

Maybe they haven’t seen or sensed me. I’m probably the least interesting person in this bar.

From here I can see at least three people who are on the verge of killing someone else present.

If I just wait another sixty seconds or so, someone’s probably going to throw someone else over the bar.

“There she is.”

A deep male voice cuts through the rumbling chatter in the room. Adrenaline surges through my system. There she is. I’m the ‘she.’ I’d put money on it, if I had any. I just don’t know why I am the ‘she.’

I glance out of my most peripheral vision.

They’re looking at me.

Talking about me.

I can still hear the rumble of their voices, but not specifically what they are saying.

My instincts are lighting up with all kinds of caution. These instincts are good. Very good. Sharpened by years of not being quite good enough at other times. Experience is a good teacher, but failure is the best one. I slip my knife out of my pocket sheath and hold it close to my body.

It’s been about thirty seconds since they walked in, and I am almost certain I am going to have to stab one of them.

Maybe all of them. I don’t know who the hell they are, but they seem to know who I am, and I don’t like that at all.

A knife might not be the weapon to use. It’s good for one, maybe two people, but it’s hard to stab three competent people.

I sheathe the knife, and unholster my sidearm. I don’t like guns much, but sometimes they have their place.

As I do, a big hand closes around my wrist, turning me toward the three men. The leader has grabbed me. Dark hazel eyes loom out from under the thick shock of his long and curling hair.

“Best be sure that’s a silver bullet in that little pistol,” he growls. “If I have to dig lead out of me, I’ll be whipping you until the wound heals.”

The hair on the back of my neck is so erect it’s like invisible hackles are raised.

I suddenly know what they are.

Not three handsome men.

Three big, bad wolves.

How the hell did I not know that this port was home to the most incredibly handsome and virile three wolves I’ve ever imagined, let alone encountered.

I’d started to imagine that men like these didn’t actually exist. Everybody knows that werewolves are real.

Same way they know vampires are real. There’s a lot of differences between them, but the main similarity is that they’ll both rip your throat out.

I’ve run into plenty of vampires. I’ve never met alpha wolves like this before.

Not three of them. Not all in one place.

Sometimes, I’ll catch the scent of a lone wolf in the wilds, but they always seem to move on before I get close. I’ve encountered a few pack families, but I’ve given them a wide berth because the last thing I should be anywhere near is a family.

The feeling of having one big alpha’s hand wrapped around my wrist is a little too much. It feels like a hit of Zip coming right through my skin. Is his hand coated in drugs? It could be. I guess it is, in a sense. What I’m getting high on isn’t manufactured, it’s all natural.

Their scent is overwhelming. It’s like being hit with a chemical bomb. Makes my head spin. Makes me feel dizzy. Makes me scared in a way I haven’t felt scared in a while.

I’m used to physical danger. People want to kill me? Fine. People want to steal my cargo? Even better. But wolves want to come for the soft interior of my fucking soul? I’m not firing a bullet. I’m running.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says, letting me go. “My friends and I want to talk to you about the cargo that’s coming off the ship with the black flags. Little bat got in our ears and mentioned that it hasn’t had the duty paid on it.”

“I’ve got my port seal,” I say. “I’m legit.”

He chuckles under his breath. “The last thing you are is legit, little girl.”

“If you ever call me a little girl again, I will shoot you, and it will be with a silver bullet,” I tell him. My voice is even and cool, like steel. I mean each and every word.

The alpha’s brows rise at me. He didn’t expect me to say that. He thought I was going to swoon as he diminished me.

“You know you are a very small female,” he says.

“I am a grown woman. I am nineteen years old.”

He snorts at me, as if me saying I am nineteen is an admission of being a baby. I have been an adult for an entire year, and I have spent that year doing as many adult things as possible. If he had any idea of all I had done, he wouldn’t be calling me a little girl.

I remind myself that him thinking of me as small and cute, and not a problem, is probably a good thing. If I want to get away with everything I am trying to get away with, it’s definitely a plus.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister,” I say, feigning innocence. “Wait. Is that an officer?”