Savage Seduction: A Dire Wolves Mission (The Devil's Dires Book 3)

C
opyright
© 2016 by Ellis Leigh

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M
ammon
of the Dire Wolves is too good of a soldier to go against orders. But obsession has a way of breaking you down, and even a shifter as disciplined as he has trouble going with the grain when there’s a fated connection dragging him the other way. Too bad that connection is to a woman he sees as his enemy.

C
harmeine was brought
up in luxury and wealth as the ward of a shifter businessman, even if that business wasn’t quite the legal kind. Money can’t stop hate, though, a fact proven by a ruthless band of shifters intent on destroying her family. Years of fighting—and losing—means she doesn’t trust strangers, especially not the one on the wrong side of the war the fates decided to tie her to.

O
ne soldier breaking
rules and ignoring orders, one princess dead set against falling for the enemy, and a group of killers with a single-minded focus on ending them both. For Dire Wolves, following a direct order from their leader should be as simple as breathing. But a single glance makes simple the harder choice and forces Mammon to risk his brotherhood to protect the mate he hates to love.

O
ne soldier
, one fight…one chance at forever.

T
he dim
, scattered lights inside the nightclub called to the shadows and left the crystal-trimmed rooms hovering closer to the dark side of the spectrum. The side where seduction ruled and things were not what they seemed. Each table, each nook and seat, sat blanketed in a haze of gray that hid truth and devoured logic. And that darkness lied. It lorded over the club in a deliberate way, disguising just enough sins for the human patrons to release their fears, to ignore what they knew, and to allow the shadows their falsehoods. They failed to see the filth and the lies through the darkness, the greed that wrapped around this place. That choked them all. But wolf shifters could see through the darkness, their animal sides refusing to give in to the siren's call of shadow and secret. And at least one did.

Dire Wolf Mammon sat in a dark corner nursing a beer, refusing to let the shadows seduce him the way they did the humans. Not immune per se, but stubborn. His inner wolf too damn strong to allow the human side to surrender to tricks of the mind. A good thing in a place like this.

Mammon's jeans and combat boots probably stood out in the crowd of sequins and sport coats, yet no one paid him any attention. Whether that was because he blended into the background as well as he did or the fact that nothing about him spoke of money and privilege, he wasn’t sure. Maybe a little of both.

Probably a little of both.

“Can I get you another?”

Mammon tore his eyes away from the group of shifters across the bar and glanced up at the waitress. The blond hair and tight shirt seemed to be a uniform for the employees at this place, making her almost indistinguishable except by scent. He sniffed subtly, checking, making sure who he was dealing with. Ah, right…the good one. Kind, attentive, and hardworking, the woman before him had easily become his favorite employee. Some of the others…well, the drug scene in Fort Worth revolved around high-end pharmaceuticals, and the staff here had access few turned their backs on. But not this one; she smelled clean, untainted by the drugs and the liquor. If he'd been there for pleasure—not that he'd ever come to a place like this for pleasure—he might have flirted. Might have tried for a number or a quiet moment alone to enjoy the strategically placed shadows. But he was working in the club, as he had been every single night for far too long…as had his prey. Mammon was on a hunt, but not the kind that ended with a beautiful woman in his bed.

“Not tonight, but thanks.”

“If you need anything—” she leaned in, giving him an exceptional view of her cleavage “—anything at all, just holler.” She smiled before sashaying to the next table, leaving Mammon with an empty beer bottle, half a chub, and a serious need to accomplish something other than winning the award for most time spent in this den of inequities.

Fuck, he wanted those bastards across the club to
do something
already.

Mammon’s phone vibrated in his pocket, a sure sign someone was trying to reach him and a distraction he didn't need. The caller was probably one of his brothers, his Dire Wolf packmates. Not Bez, though. No, the big, burly shifter with the light eyes and shorn head was too busy with his mate and their young charge to worry about what old Mammon was doing. Probably not Levi either. The kid who'd spent most of his life surrendering to a wanderlust few could understand had also found a mate, and with that, a permanent home in the mountains far north of the club where Mammon hunted. No, it was probably Phego, the brother who seemed the most concerned with Mammon's obsessions. Maybe Thaus, who’d spent a few months in the clubs with him, helping Mammon stalk his prey before he’d been sidelined by an injury from their last mission.

Both easily ignored.

The shifters across the bar suddenly cheered, holding up their glasses in a single-minded toast. What they were celebrating, Mammon didn’t know. Deus, his tech-savvy brother with more computers in his pad than most people would own in their lifetimes, had worked his magic over his multiple keyboards but turned up nothing. Nothing too incriminating, at least. Sure, the group from New York were running some sort of pay-to-play protection circuit with the human businesses—old-school mob-type stuff Mammon had seen in action nearly a century before in New York and Philly—but that didn't explain their surge to power. Their money and status that seemed to have come from nowhere. The protection racket was small-time shit, which didn't fit their current lifestyle.

Those shifters from the Windy City were too rich for small time, too polished to be only in the business of taking money and cracking skulls. They were up to something bigger, and Mammon had spent almost two years trying to figure out what.

Trying…and failing.

His phone vibrated again just as the leader of the group, a man by the name of Finn O’Rourke, stood and grabbed his coat. If he was leaving, that meant the party would be over soon. He bankrolled their fun, led the charge for more drinks or fewer, and ruled over the members of his pack. Or at least, that’s how it looked from the cheap seats where Mammon sat night after night.

Another vibration. Tearing his eyes away from the man he wanted to take down more than any other, Mammon ripped his phone from his pocket. He stared at the screen as his blood turned to ice.

Luc.

“Fuck,” Mammon hissed before jumping to his feet, setting aside his fears with action. He tossed a bill on the table and rushed toward the front door. Luc—Dire Wolf leader, his pack Alpha, and one of the meanest motherfuckers Mammon had ever met—was trying to reach him. Luc never called. He hated technology, preferring to stay in the woods he loved so much and just show up when he knew he was needed. That psychic sense of his in relation to the six men of his pack was a finely tuned, accurate machine. If Luc was calling, something was definitely wrong.

Mammon’s phone rang for the fourth time just as he reached his truck. He hopped inside and slammed the door—thankful he'd brought the old pickup instead of riding over on his motorcycle—before taking a deep breath. Probably nothing. Probably just checking in…for the first time in a millennium. He blanched as he swiped to answer. This could only be bad news.

“Luc.”

“You were told to stand down.”

Mammon bit back a growl. Challenging his Alpha wouldn’t go over well. “Backing off was recommended to me, yes.”

Luc apparently had no such qualms. His growl was as loud and clear through the phone as if he’d been sitting in the truck with Mammon.

“President Zenne feels it was more than a recommendation.”

And there it was. The reason Luc bothered with the call. The Dire Wolves served at the pleasure of their president, one Blasius Zenne, known as Blaze to his friends. President Zenne ran the North American Lycan Brotherhood, keeping an eye on the various shifter packs across the continent and working with spoiled, arrogant regional leaders to enact rules and regulations that were supposed to better the lives of the average wolf shifter.

Mammon wasn’t the biggest fan of rules and regulations. “President Zenne chose to close his eyes to the potential for chaos from this particular pack.”

“Mammon—”

“They’re out of control, Luc. Flaunting their wealth and power in every club in Fort Worth.” Mammon sat back, quelling his anger as best he could. “The humans will notice. They’ll want answers.”

“And we’ll deal with that when it comes.” Luc’s overly patient attitude only fanned the flames of Mammon’s rage.

He gripped the steering wheel, trying not to punch through the damned thing. “If we sit back, it’ll be too late. I know Blasius doesn’t see this pack as an issue, but he doesn’t understand the threat level. He’s not here.”

“You’re not supposed to be there either.”

The words stung a bit, the truth so plainly put something Mammon couldn’t avoid. True, he wasn’t supposed to be there. He was supposed to be farther north, checking in on packs in Oklahoma and Iowa for the NALB president. He was supposed to be working on official business, but instead…

“I can’t just drop it, man.” Mammon sighed, watching as Finn O’Rourke walked out of the club. The guy had three women with him, all tall and beautiful. All polished beyond belief. All very typical of what to expect from Finn. As the four stepped to the curb, a dark car pulled up, and a man jumped out to open the back door for the quartet. A perfectly orchestrated pickup resulting in zero wait time. A hell of a show, really. But Mammon knew nothing was that perfect.

Luc, on the other hand, didn’t see what Mammon did.

“They’re not a threat to us, Mammon.” Luc’s words weren’t enough to steal Mammon’s attention from the car as it drove off. Wasn’t enough to set his soul right, either. Even if the man was sort of correct. They were, after all, the last remaining Dire Wolves. Their ancestry was one of legend, of myth and folklore. It carried an incredible weight. Dire Wolves…the oldest of the shifter breeds, the biggest and strongest wolves ever known, the most dangerous. Military trained, the seven were a badass group of shifters, all in closer contact with their wolves than other shifters. All skilled and dangerous in a hundred different ways. Few knew there were any Dires left in the world, for if that news spread widely, their shifter brethren could turn on them. It’d happened in the past—centuries before, halfway around the world. And an uprising would bring attention of the human sort, something no shifters wanted.

“Everyone is a threat to us.”

Luc sighed, the static scratchy at Mammon’s ear. “I’ve bought you two more weeks down there before Blaze comes for your ass. That’s it—fourteen days, or I’ll come down there to pull you out myself.”

“Two weeks isn’t enough.”

If the growl Luc released was any indication, Mammon had pushed too far.

“Two weeks is more than anyone else would get, brother. You should be thanking Blaze, not flaunting your insubordination. Your special privileges won’t last forever.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Ever since Mammon had tracked down and destroyed a group of shifters threatening the NALB president from inside his organization—inside his very home—Mammon had been allowed a certain freedom. Given leeway on a few missions. But it seemed as if he’d run through that allotment of freedom.

“Fine,” Mammon said, letting the growl he’d been holding back rumble through him. “Two weeks. I’ll find something, a real sign that this pack needs monitoring, in two weeks.”

“No games, Mammon. We’ve let you engage in your obsessive quest against the O’Rourke pack long enough. Get evidence, or get the fuck out. Don’t make me have to hunt you down. And I’m sending in Thaus.”

Motherfucker.
“He’s still healing from the incident in North Carolina.”

Incident… Attack was more like it. Without Thaus, they never would have gotten Levi’s mate back from the bastard who tried to take her. But the Dire had taken a bullet at close range to the shoulder, and his recovery hadn’t gone as expected. Of course, it was too much of a stretch to believe Luc had somehow forgotten that fact.

“He can heal in Texas. Expect him, and know that if he issues an order, he’s speaking for me,” Luc said, growling through his words. “Two fucking weeks, Mammon.”

The phone beeped as Luc disconnected, the tone final. As were Luc’s words. Mammon kept his eyes trained on the doors, waiting for the rest of the O’Rourke pack to leave the bar. He even considered following them to see where they went after a night of spending and excess. But in the end, he threw his truck into gear and headed back to the apartment building where he’d been living since he started his investigation. He could have borrowed a piece of property from Blasius, could have rented a bigger place or something, instead. But the building filled with studio efficiencies was clean and safe, the units just enough for the shifter, the staff kind, and the owner the sort of person Mammon tended to surround himself with. Salt of the earth folks, ones without wealth and power.

The opposite of the fucking O’Rourke pack.

Two weeks…a lot could happen in two weeks.