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

closer, molding her body to his length, letting his hand stray to the swell of her hip. “Do you know the kind of hell that’s going to rain down on you for this, Claire?”
    “Oh, hell-schmell. No one has to know unless you tell them. You’re my only witness,” she taunted, arching her back to get a better view of Irish’s face, fighting her hot longing for him. “You don’t want the same thing to happen to you if you rat me out, do you?”
    She gave him a saucy grin as though she hadn’t a care in the world—even though she knew by tomorrow, her pack might be hunting her down like so much small prey.
    He wrapped an arm around her waist, his eyes now amused. “You mean werewolf versus vampire? Hot. So damn hot, but don’t tempt me. Because you’d lose, pretty lady, and you know it. I’m stronger, faster.”
    “Way older.”
    His eyes glittered. “That’s fair. But with age comes wisdom and a certain prowess you obviously lack. This was messy, Claire. Really messy.”
    That was fair, too. It was messy. Boomer’s was a shitwreck of overturned tables, broken glass, and blood. So much blood. “Yeah. Things didn’t exactly go according to the plan.”
    Hah. They hadn’t gone at all like the plan because there’d been no plan, per se. There’d been a lot of screaming she hadn’t anticipated, though. Had she known, she’d have brought duct tape and a ball gag. Still, in the end, she’d won the battle.
    Irish’s delectable lips hovered near hers, making her gulp. “Do they ever with you?”
    “Oh, c’mon. I’m pretty organized. But I admit, I’m better at planning a library fundraiser than I am at…this.” She stumbled over actually using the word to describe what “this” was. Her chest pressed against his heightened her lust, yet apparently dampened her vocabulary.
    “They’ll kill you.” He hissed the words as though her death mattered to him.
    “I’ve always said I’d rather be dead, haven’t I?” she challenged. When she’d spoken those words, she’d meant them. She’d said them loud and clear for two years, right up until just last week, when the full moon of her last birthday as a single woman was just around the corner.
    She’d said it in front of her patrons at the library. She’d said it at the Pick and Pack while she shopped for rope and ant killer. She’d said it to her best friend Freya smack in the middle of a church supper.
    In fact, she’d said it so much and so often, she might as well have wandered around with a sandwich board around her neck.
    Irish lifted her, his fingers digging into her waist, plunking her down on top of the bar with a hard jolt. He spread her legs and stood between them, resting his hands on either side of her hips. “Was death really preferable to mating with Gannon?”
    Claire shivered, goose bumps breaking out along her arms, bile rising in her throat. Just the mention of Gannon Dodd’s name made her want to projectile launch her lunch.
    She stared Irish square in the eye. “Hmm. Let me count the ways. Being flayed alive and having vinegar poured into my raw wounds was preferable. Boiled in oil was preferable. Mating with the Abominable Snowman and the Lock Ness Monster in a ménage of sharp snowman claws and slimy water was preferable. So death was no big thing, as far as I’m concerned.”
    “So you did this to avoid the mate? You couldn’t have just run off? Gone shopping out of town forever? Skipped over to one of the other paranormal territories? Hidden away?”
    “Oh no. Make no mistake, Irish McConnell. I did this because Gannon’s a deplorable pig. But now that you mention shopping, a new pair of shoes might be in order.” She wiggled her feet encased in a pair of sparkly flats. They were ruined now—all the dragging and scuffling had ripped some of the rhinestones off.
    Boo. A perfectly good pair of shoes and a dress trashed all in one night was so wrong.
    Irish gripped her jaw, his long fingers curling into it. “Not a