Fangs of Anarchy: Forbidden Alpha (Part 4) In the Zone: A Werewolf Vampire Shifter Romance Read online

  Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha—Part Four

  Copyright ©2014 Dakota Cassidy

  Other works by Dakota Cassidy

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then purchase your own copy from appropriate distributor. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement from the author of this work.

  Text copyright © Dakota Cassidy 2014 All Right Reserved

  Cover Art: Renee George

  Paranormal Novels

  The Accidental Series:

  The Accidental Werewolf—Book 1

  Accidentally Dead—Book 2

  The Accidental Human—Book 3

  The Accidental Demon—Book 4

  Accidentally Catty—Book 5

  Accidentally Dead Again—Book 6

  The Accidental Genie—Book 7

  The Accidental Werewolf 2: Something About Harry—Book 8

  The Accidental Dragon—Book 9 Coming February 2015

  The Hell Series:

  Kiss & Hell—Book 1

  My Way to Hell—Book 2

  The Wolf Mates Series:

  An American Werewolf in Hoboken—Book 1

  Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha:

  Part 1—Alpha Down

  Part 2—Girl Most Lycan

  Part 3—Were in the World is Gannon Dodd?

  Part 4—In the Zone

  Contemporary Novels

  The Call Girls Series:

  Talk This Way—Prequel Novella

  Talk Dirty to Me—Book 1

  Something to Talk About—Book 2

  Talking After Midnight—Book 3

  The Ex-Trophy Wives Series:

  You Dropped a Blonde on Me—Book 1

  Burning Down the Spouse—Book 2

  Waltz This Way—Book 3

  Table of Contents

  Letter to the Reader

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  Join The Tiara Diaries

  Letter to the Readers

  Dear readers,

  Please note: Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha Part Four—In the Zone is the fourth installment of a multi-part serial. If you haven’t read parts one, two and three, you can find them here— Part 1—Alpha Down, Part 2—Girl Most Lycan, Part 3—Were in the World is Gannon Dodd?

  This is an episodic paranormal romance with new releases approximately every two to three weeks. These are not intended as stand-alone reads, and there will be cliffhangers. Not big ones. Just little ones. Swear it. So no throwing stuff at me. J But I hope you’ll look for the conclusion of Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha Part Five in the next couple of weeks!

  Chapter Fourteen

  A hand grabbed Claire from behind, clamping over her mouth and securing her body against the hand’s owner. The hand was strong, cool, the body firm, rigid with muscle and pressed against hers without an inch to spare between them. Her backpack, full of her clothing and what little food she’d been able to buy, fell to the ground.

  Her heart crashed in her chest, her instinct to rip the son of a bitch to shreds hindered only by the fact that she had to be very careful not to make too much noise. She was so damn close. After three days, she was too close to finding real evidence to screw this up.

  The air, rife with sweat and darkness, the kind of evil darkness only found in the Zone, clung to her overstimulated nostrils like grease on a hamburger, thick and oily. The alleyway, littered with used needles and garbage, might have choked her with its stench if not for the fact that she had one purpose.

  Get inside this damn condemned building and find the motherfucker who’d unknowingly set her on the path to murder.

  Her assailant pulled her farther into the depths of the alley, dragging her over the strewn litter, the crunch from the soles of her sneakers scattering disposed needles.

  He pulled her so fast, so hard, she had little time to assess what exactly he was, but he certainly wasn’t human. She’d found a human or two in the filth of the Zone—those who thought it exotic to hook up with a werewolf hooker or a succubus madam.

  The thrill-seekers, the scourge of humanity, they all came to the Zone, located in a small, locked-down portion of Quebec, to get their perverted kicks by doing a paranormal. So they could go home and slap their equally human buddies on the back as they retold the story of having a vampire suck them off.

  It made her gag when she’d discovered it wasn’t just her kind who came to the Zone; choke on the bile that rose in her throat when she’d discovered how valuable a clean, healthy paranormal was to some humans. Worth thousands of dollars in some cases.

  Learning that made Claire more determined to keep the innocent as far away as possible, and in order to do that, she had to get this big lug off her.

  Just as she raised an arm to wrap around his neck, ready to pull his head down in order to gouge his eyes out, he snatched her hand, and whispered, “Oh, Librarian, you are a handful. So here’s how this is gonna go.

  “First, I’m going to put you over my knee and give you the spanking you so richly deserve for scaring the undead right out of me. It’ll hurt. But it’ll hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me. And yes, before you correct me, I meant it’ll hurt you more than me.

  “Second, I’m going to throw you down on any available surface and make love to you without an ounce of mercy. But not before you take a shower. You smell like dead fish.” There was a sniffing noise near her ear. “And Funyuns. Is that Funyuns? Anyway, when I’m done with you, Librarian, you’ll never leave my side again.”

  Irish.

  All the fight seeped right out of her, replaced by those stupid butterflies and relief. So much relief. Irish was here and all the fear, every sleepless night propped up under a bridge or causeway, watching her kind fall prey to drugs and helplessness, caught up with her.

  Claire twisted around, launching herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in it. “You’re here!” He was here. She loved so much that he was here.

  Instantly, Irish wrapped his arms around her, hauling her close, pressing his lips to her forehead almost as though he were relieved, too. “I am. But don’t you even think for one second I’m going to let you distract me. So before I run roughshod over you, before I give you the come-to-Jesus talk, I’m going to try to be fair and hear you out first. I want to know what’s going on and I want to know now. Do we have a deal?”

  “No,” she whispered against the cool skin of his neck, clinging tighter, thinking that he was wrong. She didn’t smell like Funyuns. It was stale tortilla chips. There’d definitely been some of those in the Dumpster she’d hidden in last night while two cracked-out men fought with their equally cracked-out dealer.

  Irish unwound her arms from his neck, placing her hands on his chest, and gave her that Irish look of reproac
h. “Now, now, Librarian. No is not the answer I’m looking for.”

  She pressed her cheek to his broad chest, so happy to see him. “Remember when I asked you to trust me?” she mumbled, inhaling his scent, reveling in his strength, needing to be near someone good, someone with integrity.

  “I do. That was three days and three nights ago, and at least three hundred years off my life ago. You’ve gotten all the trust you’re getting from me.”

  Claire gripped the collar of his jacket. “I can’t, Irish. If I do, bad things will happen. Please believe me.” Bad things she wouldn’t be able to control. A race war to end all race wars.

  “Bad things are going to happen if you don’t, Claire-Bear, because I’m going to tie you to a bedpost and leave you there until you tell me what the hell is going on. Now, I know you think I’m Mr. Pussycat these days, and you can wrap me around your little finger with the bat of those gorgeous eyelashes and the swish of your damn fine ass. But I’m here to tell you, I deal with some downright unsavory assholes all the time. You, infuriating lady, are cake. So, what the hell made you come to the Zone? Alone?”

  She walked her fingers up his chest, ran one along his granite cheek and smiled. “Do you really like my eyelashes and my ass, Irish McConnell?”

  “I’ll like them as much, if not more, tied to a bedpost. Talk to me, Claire. Let me help you. Something—something much bigger than you—is going on, and I want to help. You just have to let me.”

  Claire swallowed hard. She wanted to share. She wanted to see the person responsible for this snowball from hell pay. Pay hard. But she needed proof this thing she was hunting for, this heinous pig she’d mutilate given half the chance, really existed. She needed proof for council—solid, irrefutable proof.

  Maybe she could tell him some of it—just a piece of it, enough to keep him from browbeating her. She was beaten down enough. If Irish put the screws to her after three solid days of no food and showers, she’d likely cave if he looked at her cross-eyed.

  He held up a finger under her nose. “But wait. You smell like the breath of a thousand rotting souls. How about we go somewhere and get you cleaned up? Maybe some food?”

  “Do you mean real food? Or someone’s leftover food from a garbage bin? Because I just don’t know if I can stomach Abuelito’s cheesy nachos another day.” Her stomach responded by rolling in wonky fashion.

  His coal eyes went concerned. “You haven’t been eating? I know it’s the Zone, but there are plenty of places to eat, Claire. The depraved eat, too.”

  She wrapped her arms back around his neck and sighed. “I had limited funds, vampire. I didn’t want to use my credit card in case someone tracked it. You know the government keeps a close eye on how and where we spend our money. It was my estimation that Claire the Librarian frequenting an establishment in the Zone would inspire suspicion. We, as a civilized race, aren’t allowed in the Zone, if you’ll recall rule number eleventy-billion from the government. And I only took a little cash from the bank before I left so as not to raise eyebrows.”

  Cupping her jaw, he surprised her by grinning. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?”

  She sighed, her shoulders aching from the tension of the past three days. “Well, everything but where I’d sleep for three days…or shower…or use the facilities.”

  His chuckle was light and breezy. “Get on that bike, and don’t give me a hard time about it, Claire Montgomery.”

  She began to back away, shaking her greasy hair. “Oh, no. I’m not leaving the Zone, Irish. I can’t. I’m close. I can feel it.”

  He cracked his knuckles. “Close to what, is the question? Are you so close now that you can’t leave?” Irish’s eyes scanned the worn brick building, cracked and in disrepair, his gaze followed the length of it to the top floor.

  “Well, not as close as I could have been, because now you’ve blown my cover.”

  He gave her his deadpan stare. “Your cover? Lookit you, little Miss Alias. I could hear you from a mile away, Claire. How do you suppose I knew where you were? How I found you? The Zone is pretty vast. You need to work harder, ninja.”

  He was right. She’d stumbled through this entire stay in The Zone like a two-year old in her mother’s high-heels. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. “That’s only because you’re a vampire and you have good nostrils.”

  He pointed to the brick before crossing his arms over his chest. “And this building doesn’t house vampires? What if the undead lives here and they smelled you?”

  Points. He had so many.

  Okay, so she didn’t know what it housed. It was only a hint of a hint from some drifter demon, but it was all she had after skulking about the scum of the Zone and coming up dry. Of the four people she’d summoned the nerve to talk to, four people she’d carefully scoped out by watching and waiting, none would even entertain her when she asked about the name she’d been given in that text. They either cringed and ran away, or clammed up.

  “I don’t know what it houses, Irish. You didn’t give me time to find out,” she hissed, frustrated with herself for not using her nose to her advantage. She knew Irish’s scent, but she’d let fear and adrenaline overpower common sense.

  Footsteps crunched behind them, stilling their words. Her heart jumped to her throat, clogging it with the fear of ending up caught. Neither of them could be caught here. She wasn’t sure if it would be worse to end up caught by the people who frequented the Zone, like the rumored murderer or two in hiding, or the authorities who did sweeps from time to time to check identifications and passports. Jail or death by mutilation? Hmmm…

  Irish put his finger to his lips as raucous male laughter and slurred words filled the rank air in a putrid cloud of profanity.

  Claire held her breath, praying whoever they were, they wouldn’t round the corner and find them in the alleyway.

  As the hard thunk of boots on concrete grew closer, her pulse quickened. She readied her stance. She might not look like much, but she was no slouch when it came to defending herself, and she’d do so if pressed.

  Because if the person who she thought lived in this building really lived in this building, and the feet she heard belonged to him, things were going to get ugly—fast.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Irish was next to her in a blur of legs and feet, pulling her close to him, dragging her backward toward the wall and planting one on her lips.

  “Nice ass,” someone sneered. Someone with a raspy voice thick with too much booze. Laughter ripped across the cold breeze in varying degrees of tone.

  When she tried to pull out of Irish’s arms to address whomever was leering at her ass, Irish pulled her in tighter. “Not a word, Claire,” he muttered against her mouth, continuing to probe her lips.

  “Hey, lovebirds! Take your shit somewhere the fuck else,” another, even more slurred voice ordered.

  Irish lifted his head, but only enough to say, “Sorry, man. Just got paid. You know what it’s like. Got carried away with the goodies.”

  There was cackling, lots of men cackling because they thought a man had spent his paycheck on a hooker. Only a group of men would high-five each other over a complete stranger blowing his hard-earned money on paid sex.

  She heard sniffing before the man said, “Yeah, yeah. Now move it along, bloodsucker. Go fuck somewhere else. This is private property.”

  “Keep your head down and your mouth shut, Librarian,” Irish warned, before pulling her by the hand. He nodded at the group of men. “You got it.”

  And she mostly followed his orders as he swept her out and away from the alley. She did keep her head down—sort of. She only lifted her head for the briefest of moments to find a crew of four men, well-dressed in expensive dark suits, Italian leather boots, and muted ties. Their language led her to believe they were all thugs, but their clothing said they had fat wallets. So they were paid thugs.

  One man with eyes the color of rubies and a short thatch of thick, deep brown hair on his head met h
er quick gaze. His eyes, small in his head, almost hidden by his hawkish brow but intense and wild, were the kind of eyes that would swallow a soul for lunch with just one glance. It was all she saw, but it was enough to convince her he was worth looking into.

  Claire fought a visible shudder, gripping Irish’s hand as he moved her away from the men and she stooped to grab her backpack. This stranger, this man she’d never met and had barely glanced at, left her feeling ugly, unclean, as though he’d somehow wormed his way under her skin to fester there.

  She took in deep breaths as she passed them, committing their scents to memory, remembering the few details she could glean before dropping her eyes to the littered pavement and following Irish out of the alley.

  * * *

  “Wow,” Claire breathed out, taking in the oasis in the midst of the Zone’s chaos Irish had brought her to as they stepped out of a shiny, silver elevator.

  He nodded, handing her a sparkling white towel and a bar of soap. Real soap. Not the kind in the dispensers at the gas stations she’d attempted to wash in. “Nice, right?”

  Claire’s eyes tried to take all of it in at once. From the arched windows covered in enormous photographs of an azure blue ocean with palm trees and ivory sand, so real you’d almost believe you could reach out and touch the water, to the high ceilings and sparse but carefully selected furniture in soothing colors, yeah, nice was understating it.

  “Where are we, and who would own something like this in the Zone? Aren’t they afraid someone will burn it to the ground—or worse, turn it into a crack den?”

  Irish led her down a long hallway, painted an inviting eggshell white with muted turquoise sconces, shimmering with incandescent lights. “Longtime friend, onetime fellow corporate attorney. His name’s Mathias Lawson and he doesn’t worry about much because he’s got a lot of money to throw around and lots of hired guns to handle whatever comes his way. He chooses to stay here in the Zone for various reasons. One of them is helping people get out of the Zone. Specifically kids lost to the system.”