Hold Me Closer, Necromancer - Lish McBride [21]
Michael howled as he yanked his arm free. Blood poured down. He ripped off his T-shirt and held it to the wound, glaring at her the whole time.
Brid smiled at him, wide and toothy, like a yearbook photo. She knew how that smile would look coming from a mask of blood—his blood. Even naked, injured, and locked in a cage, she had gotten the best of him, and he knew it.
He came at the cage again. “Michael,” the stranger said, the command in his voice absolute. He was not imposing physically. Medium build, not too tall. Dark hair cut in a Caesar style. He had pale skin, as if he didn’t go out much and didn’t care how he looked at the beach. Clean-shaven with a good mouth and solid jawline. Even his nails were spotless and well kept. Brid realized that everything about the man should have added up to handsome, and yet he didn’t appeal to her. Something about him turned her system off. He emanated power, though, and Brid suspected that attracted more than enough women to keep the man company.
Michael stilled at the man’s tone and glared at her. “Mongrel bitch,” he spat.
Brid sighed and pulled her knees up to her chest, rolling her eyes at his childishness. Just the kind of action that she knew would piss Michael off.
Michael’s lip curled back, showing his teeth. He was still trying to dominate her even now. No matter how many times she’d won, he just kept on trying. But he wasn’t the dominant wolf here, she was, and she let that knowledge show in her face. Michael broke first. Brown eyes turned away, and a single earthy-brown curl dropped onto his forehead. Not for the first time, Brid wondered why the goddess had wasted such beauty on a total ass-hat.
The man leaned against the wall, content for now to observe the argument.
Michael kept his eyes averted. “I should have been next in line.”
Brid released her knees and leaned back, palms on the floor. “Please. You were by no means second on the list. Or third.” She mused on that. “Maybe in the top ten, but barely.” Michael had always relied too heavily on his biceps while ignoring his brain. Brid watched the muscle clench in his jaw. He’d never been able to understand that in wolf packs, were or otherwise, it wasn’t always the biggest who ruled. Strength didn’t mean much when everyone was strong. Her brothers could change all the tires on her dad’s truck without a jack.
She didn’t flinch as Michael launched himself at the cage, angry and thinking only of her throat in his mouth, she was sure. She clucked her tongue at him. “That’s no way to get what you want. Go ahead, open the door. Who knows, with all the aconite you’ve given me, you might even stand a chance.”
Michael slammed his fists on the floor and howled, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth. The other man walked up behind him and placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder. Instead of reacting like Brid imagined he would—taking the guy’s hand off at the wrist—Michael actually calmed, his brown eyes softening and losing their focus. Interesting.
“I think,” the man said, “that now would be a good time for a constitutional, don’t you?”
Michael nodded his head absently. Then he got up and walked out the door.
Brid couldn’t remember Michael ever acting so docile, even before he’d gone rogue. Only a pack leader should have had the power to subdue him like that, and even then it probably would have taken longer. Brid made no outward move; she kept her position open and unconcerned, her brain filtering through all the information she had, and each thought placed the man in front of her higher up on the fear scale. Michael had the potential to cause problems, but Brid didn’t fear him. She’d kicked his butt too many times for that. The man in front of her, however, was cause for concern. Lots of concern.
He pulled up a wooden chair. The hand-carved filigree made it look old and expensive, but he kept it