Killing the Alpha: Fangs of Anarchy part 1 by dakota cassidy

Chapter One
    “Whelp, you’ve done it now , ” Irish McConnell muttered as his raven eyebrow rose on the sleek canvas of his granite-hard face. It was just the one, but it was always enough to make Claire Montgomery weak in the knees.
    That and the perpetual stubble on his jaw. She wanted to feel it rubbed over every part of her, feel the scratchy tingle of his whiskers against her skin.
    And yep, she’d done it all right. She’d outdone done it like she’d written the book.
    “You have blood on your hand,” she pointed out, grunting as she stood to face him inside Boomer’s, an abandoned bar on the outskirts of their small town of Rock Cove, Maine. Her muscles ached and her eyes was a bit sore, the scratches on her arm still raw but healing quickly.
    Irish held up his hand to the light, looking at it with mock disgust. “And you know how hard real blood is for me to resist, Claire. What a crappy position to put me in.”
    He said it as if it were her fault he’d walked into the middle of this. As if she’d offered him the genuine article to purposely tempt him.
    “Blame, blame, blame,” Claire mumbled under her breath, looking down at the mess one of her favorite dresses had become.
    Irish strode toward her, taking in the scene, his skin stretched taut over his high cheekbones. “ Jesus Christ , Claire.”
    “Leave Jesus out of this,” she huffed, forcing herself to stay calm while wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm.
    Irish looked at the mess on the littered bar floor, the neon sign blinking above his chiseled features making him look paler than he really was. His hair, like the feathers of a raven’s wing, gleamed slick and black in a short ponytail at the base of his skull.
    His brow furrowed as he swiped the bottle of water she’d left on the bar, using it to rinse off the blood he’d managed to get on him from the door handle. He pulled a used cocktail napkin from one of the only nearby tables still standing and dried his hands.
    Claire straightened her spine and waited for him to lose his cool. This scenario wasn’t going to happen without a heated exchange. Not if Irish was involved.
    Their verbal sparring was legendary—she relished it. He made her use her brain, her words, and from the moment she’d met him, it had turned her on.
    Yet Irish said nothing as he stood at the bar, roughly hewn, immorally sexy in his worn leather jacket and scuffed boots, bulky arms and thick thighs. Instead, his gaze fastened on hers and he waited until she broke first.
    She always broke first. It was that stare. Penetrating her, devouring her, eating her up from the inside out.
    “Say something. Say anything, Irish. Say it and be done.”
    The leather of his jacket, identical to the one all his club members wore, creaked when he lobbed the napkin to the table, the sound abrasive and jarring to her sensitive ears. He pointed upward with a finger, still streaked with a crimson thread of blood. “Jesus. He might be your only hope at this point.”
    Her sigh of exasperation echoed in the empty room. “Always helpful.”
    Irish’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. “Did you want me to rock you gently in the corner and blow unicorn kisses at you, Kitten, or do you want me to handle this first then give you the browbeating you deserve?” he asked, waving a lean hand around the room.
    She lifted her chin in pure defiance. Irish McConnell had turned her down once before, and it had hurt like someone had stuck a hand in her chest and ripped her heart out. She knew why he’d turned her down, and it was logical, sane even. Still, she didn’t ask for anything from Irish because of it. Ever.
    Lifting her chin higher, Claire said, “I didn’t ask for your help.”
    “Well, you’re getting it.” He checked to be sure the door was locked before stalking back across the length of the bar, his thigh muscles bulging and pressing against his tight black jeans, and dropping his gloves on the scarred bar