Wildblood

Chapter 39

39

Caelan’s toes clipped the pavement, and she faltered mid-sprint. She was tired, breaths ragged and limbs flaccid. Kai slowed to drag her by her clothes if needed, but she recovered, her hand grazing his ear. Her frantic pulse burst from her fingertips, and he worried she’d collapse. He led her down an alleyway behind the Confessional, ignoring the startled cries of passersby. They probably assumed he was an unusually large lupine dog off its leash, and while the thought would’ve normally offended him, it was a blessing in disguise. The last thing he needed was animal control shooting tranquilizer darts at his ass.

Caelan keeled over in the alleyway, palms pressed to her knees as she heaved for air. Tracking her from the corner of his eye, Kai backed into a murky corner by the dumpster. They were running out of time. Bracing for the pain, he tuned out the drip of water from the rooftops, the sound of cars sloshing through puddles, the whirr of stale air from nearby vents. He wiggled his toes—short, stubby things with little dexterity—imagined them unfurling into fingers. His bones began to hum, the vibration growing stronger until the tingling morphed into stabbing, burning, maiming. Teeth clamped, he swallowed a whimper, every limb brittle like baked mud as his bones shattered, and he collapsed with a wet smack. A piercing whine lanced his ears, his skull molding itself into something human-like. He caught the edge of Caelan’s shout as she bolted over to him, but he couldn’t see her through the myriad of reds and greens bleeding into his vision. Colors his animal eyes didn’t perceive. He convulsed as his fur receded, and his body lengthened, the autumn chill scraping his flesh like a dull blade.

Kai pushed off the ground with a determined grunt, and Caelan whirled away to avert her gaze, though he smelled her panic wafting off her skin.

“A-are you okay?” she stammered, peaking over her shoulder.

Kai slapped a palm over his face and groaned, swooning before he regained balance with a stuttering hop. “Fine.” He sounded worn. Shambling forward, he pounded on the back door of the Confessional with his fist.

Moments later, it squealed open, and he was greeted by an agitated Carol as she looked him up and down. “Not this shit again!”

Showing up naked in the Confessional’s alleyway usually came at the end of a nasty bender—something Carol was accustomed to. But this…this was different. Kai braced his forearm against the frame, his head dangling as though fastened to his neck by a fraying thread. He squeezed his eyes shut, still dizzy from the transition. When the change was forced, returning to his human body hurt twice as bad. “I need my spare clothes.” He flung an arm out and signaled for Caelan to come closer. “Lock her in Connor’s office. Don’t let anyone in.”

Carol straightened, her gaze flying to the teen. “Are we kidnapping kids now?”

“The dead opposite.” Kai finally lifted his head, his eyes molten beneath a wrinkled brow. “I’m not fucking around, Carol. Do it.”

The indignation fell from her face. Mouth clapping shut, she swallowed and nodded. “Come here, kid.”

Caelan did as she was told, skirting past Kai and into the bar. Carol let the door slip closed, then reappeared moments later, thrusting a pile of clothes into his chest. “Get dressed,” she told him somberly, then retreated inside.

The door clicked into place, but every hair on the back of Kai’s neck stood on end as a shadow loomed closer, blocking the light from the street.

“You’ve had her this whole time.”

Sighing as he yanked on sweatpants, Kai ignored the accusation and tied the drawstring to keep the waistband where it belonged, then hung his hoodie off the doorknob. He’d have to return to the park to collect his things. “You’re a fucking pest, you know that?”

Zverev pushed closer, his footsteps heavy. “And you’re a rat. Pyotr wanted you to find the forgery, but you knew where she was all along. You’ve been keeping her.”

“Yeah, keeping her alive.” Kai faced his nemesis, flashing him a barbed smile. “Sorry, but I’m not very trainable.”

Ivan Zverev scoffed. “I’d expect nothing less. You lack discipline. It’s why you’ll always lose when it matters.”

A veiled reference. Kai wasn’t sure if it was about their match or his entire damn life. Not that it mattered. This wasn’t a fight club; it was a grime-covered back alley made of concrete, bricks, and trash. If Vanya thought discipline would save him in a street brawl, he had another thing coming.

“You think you’re noble? Taking orders from a puckered asshole in a snakeskin suit?” Kai shuffled away from the wall, gauging the space. Claustrophobic. Close quarters. Neither of them would have room to maneuver, which put the big man at an advantage. He was a bulldozer, and the confined lane shackled Kai’s superior speed.

“I’m a freelancer,” said Zverev, closing in at an unhurried pace. “My livelihood depends on my loyalty to my contracts. I’m reliable.”

“You don’t think for yourself,” Kai rephrased. “Try being reliable to someone who actually needs it.”

A low chuckle reverberated from Zverev’s throat, his mouth curving into a lopsided smile. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re too soft for this business. Sentimentality will get you killed. It’s dull.”

Kai wiped the soles of his feet with his palms. If he was sentimental, it wasn’t because he was soft. “You wouldn’t know a sharp object if it stabbed you in the eye.”

The smile tumbled from Zverev’s face. He stood rigid—a predator in wait. “I suppose I’ll consider this the rematch you promised me.”

Then, the beast charged.

Kai didn’t bother trying to stem the tide of meat and bone barreling toward him. Dropping low, he pivoted out of the way, giving Zverev all the room he needed to waste his energy on a wild swing. His fist connected with a wooden crate next to a dumpster, and the flimsy thing shattered into pieces. Kai only hoped Zverev suffered a few splinters to his hand. Shaking out his fist, the big man turned.

“You can’t dance forever, little cousin.”

The term twisted a sneer onto Kai’s face. “I’ll do what I want, you overgrown lapdog.”

Corralling Kai toward the corner with the dumpster, Zverev shoved him against the bricks and drove an uppercut into his ribs. Kai tensed his core and nicked the goliath’s fist with a defensive elbow, but the punch still landed, rattling Kai’s insides like a ripe apricot in a glass jar. Mortar scraped the skin from his back, the sting lashing along his spine. Before Kai could recover, Zverev’s knuckles collided with his jaw. White hot pain shot through his skull like a bolt, his vision blooming with stars. He tried shoring up against the wall, but another mammoth fist drove through his mandible again and again. He felt like a nail getting hammered into a board. Iron coated his tongue, the smell of it filling his nostrils as crimson poured over his lip and dribbled to the ground. His vision blurred, the pavement beneath his feet tipping as the world began to swim.

Cursing through a grimace, Kai smashed the crown of his head against Zverev’s face, the satisfying crunch stippling his senses. His attacker reeled back with a yelp, blood ribboning between his fingers as he held his palm over his mouth. Kai wasted no time kicking him away, and the giant stumbled, doubling over with an irritated grunt.

Shaking off the blows, Zverev straightened, his dark eyes flashing in time with passing headlights. They shone just like an animal’s—just like Kai’s.

The black wolf grinned—a mordant smile full of knowing. “Was that soft enough for you?”

Snarling, Zverev reached for a stray bottle off a nearby step and whipped it at full force. Kai ducked as the glass hurtled past his head and shattered against the wall behind him. By the time he looked up, Zverev was in front of him again, forearm to the throat. The breath fled Kai’s lungs, his windpipe nearly crushed. Zverev drove him toward the broken glass, jagged pieces littering the ground, waiting to be stepped on.

“Nice touch,” Kai strained. He was the one fighting barefoot. Gathering the copper taste in his mouth, he sprayed the residual blood into the beast’s eyes. “You know what really sucks, though?”

Blinded, Zverev roared, warm breath and saliva hitting Kai’s cheek.

“Balls.”

The goliath jerked back as Kai drove his knee forward and barely missed crushing a pair of gonads. Kai reached into a dumpster and flung whatever he could grasp. Pelted by takeout containers, cold French fries, and grease, Zverev swiped at the offending projectiles. With his attention split, Kai dove low and planted a fist into his thigh, striking the thick band of fibers and nerves that ran from knee to hip. Zverev’s leg buckled, and Kai swung an elbow directly across his jaw. His head snapped left, his eyes momentarily blank as he swayed from the concussive blow.

Kai clasped the back of Zverev’s head, fingers digging into his scalp. Hauling him close, he locked eyes with his cousin, his teeth set and his lips pulled back in a baleful grin. “Did you think there was going to be a referee to stop me from ripping your other nipple off?”

A gasp caught in Zverev’s throat, mouth working in protest. Kai kicked out the beast’s other leg in response. Cinching the tender nub between two knuckles, he gave a brutal wrench.

Flesh tore from Zverev’s chest—a split second of sweet, silent shock before a harrowing howl obliterated the peace. A car swerved, and murmurs floated into the narrow lane as bystanders puzzled out what they’d heard. Luckily for Kai, most people ignored red flags and moved along.

Wetness coated Kai’s fingers as Zverev’s shirt blossomed with dark stains. He let go, then snatched the big man’s collar. Pulling back his elbow, Kai drove his knuckles straight into Zverev’s temple. His limbs went limp, his impressive weight dragging against Kai’s hold as his head drooped to the side, his jaw slackened, and he conked out cold.

“Fuck,” Kai gritted out, dropping Zverev with a thump. He rolled his shoulders and stretched out his ribs, still cramped from the blow to his middle.

Just as Kai retrieved the hoodie from the knob, the door swung open.

“What the hell are you doing?” Connor threw his arms up as he stepped out. His eyes trailed down Kai’s bruised and bloodied torso, then swept to the crumpled mass of muscle lying motionless on the asphalt. “Shit, is he?—”

“Dead? Not yet. Help me get him inside.” Flinging the hoodie over his shoulder, Kai circled around the behemoth and scooped him under his arms. He could carry the bastard by himself, but dead weight was awkward, and Kai didn’t want to accidentally snap his head off against the doorframe before interrogating him. “You still got that cable wire?”

“Woah, woah, woah, slow down.” Connor followed, alarm lacing his voice. “Forget the cable wire. Why are we dragging a Soviet tank into my bar? Is this some whacky revenge scheme?”

“No.” Kai’s patience was whittling away. How could he explain without demanding blind trust from his friend? Connor would take a bullet for him, but there was no sense in becoming an accomplice without good reason. “That kid Carol brought in? He’s trying to sell her to Pyotr.”

It wasn’t a total fabrication. Zverev was given money in exchange for Caelan’s return. It was still a transaction, and that was vile enough.

“You’re full of shit.” Connor’s words didn’t sound as disbelieving as they should’ve. “…Are you?”

Kai shook his head, unceremoniously dropping Zverev a second time. “You think I want to be half naked in an alleyway getting my liver pummeled by this”—he gestured flippantly—“tornado for hire?”

Connor pointed at Zverev. “If that’s what became of a tornado for hire, what does that make you?”

“Better at street fights,” Kai replied dryly.

With a lamenting sigh, Connor grumbled his way to Zverev’s legs, grabbed him by the ankles, and together, they hefted him up. “All right, fine, but this better be the last time you shit on my floor.”

Kai quirked a brow at the canine reference. He loosened his hold on the turd in question, leaving Connor with the bulk of the weight. Kai watched with vicious delight as his friend’s complexion turned eggplant-like, and he struggled to keep his grip.

“Well,” Kai grinned wickedly, “aren’t you lucky you own a mop.”