Scorched Heart (The Firebrand Series Book 4) by Helen Harper (read books for money TXT) 📕

his attention and his body quivered involuntarily. Rat. He resisted the urge to bound after it. He was a predator and he was hungry, but he had standards.

A solitary taxi appeared from round the corner about three hundred metres away. It trundled along the road before pulling up at the curb just beyond the line of trees where he was waiting. He watched, sinking back on his haunches, as a dishevelled couple reeking of alcohol and sex and the optimism of youth staggered out from the back seats.

As the taxi pulled away, the woman bent down, unbuckled the straps on her shoes and slid the offending articles from her feet. Devereau tilted his head and focused on her. Vodka and cranberry – that’s what she’d been drinking. Her perfume was light and floral, clashing with the pungent smell of her companion’s aftershave which was still eye-wateringly strong even after a night on the town. She wobbled slightly as she straightened up, her shoes in her hand.

Less than three seconds, Devereau decided. He’d be on her in less than three seconds, even if she ran. He shivered, his golden fur rippling down the length of his body.

The man was wearing a patterned shirt and skinny jeans. They didn’t suit him. He had broad shoulders and thin legs, so the tight denim made his torso look as if it were balancing on toothpicks like a canapé at a party. A juicy morsel of pink flesh ready for the eating… A sliver of drool escaped from the corner of Devereau’s mouth. He licked his lips.

‘Babes.’ The woman had a thick accent, London through and through. ‘Babes.’ She waved at her boyfriend to get his attention. ‘Take my shoes, babes.’

The man did as he was told. From the trees, Devereau Webb snorted. The couple froze.

‘Do you think that’s…?’ the woman murmured.

The man nodded, a taut movement that emphasised his fear. His eyes darted from side to side as they attempted to pierce the gloom. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said loudly. ‘It’ll be fine.’

Devereau could smell his terror. Literally. He licked his lips again.

The man reached across and took his girlfriend’s arm. ‘Come on.’

They started moving, hurried steps that took them away from where Devereau was watching. ‘What if he comes after us?’ the woman whispered urgently.

Devereau Webb smiled.

‘I’ll fight him off.’ The man’s grip on the shoes tightened. The blustering bravado in his voice was almost painful. ‘He won’t hurt us.’

Devereau stood up and stretched then stepped out from the cover of the trees and padded silently after the scurrying couple. They turned down a path to the left, heading to a block of flats a mere stone’s throw from his own high-rise building. As they did so, the woman glanced over her shoulder. When she saw him, less than twenty metres away, she let out a tiny squeak.

The man’s head turned. His eyes widened as they travelled the length and breadth of Devereau Webb’s massive wolf body.

I know, Devereau thought. Bigger than you imagined, right?

The man yanked his hand from his partner’s, dropped the shoes to the ground where they fell with a loud clatter, and spun round. A heartbeat later he started to sprint, pelting away as fast as his matchstick legs could carry him.

The trouble with running, Devereau considered, was that it made you look like prey.

The woman didn’t move. Devereau was well aware that it wasn’t because she didn’t want to, it was because sheer terror had rooted her to the ground. Her body was quivering, shaking visibly from head to toe. Even her teeth were chattering.

Devereau didn’t alter his speed. Keeping his movements smooth and steady, he strolled up to her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

He gave her one long look, and then forced the change. Golden-tipped fur gave way to smooth skin, and his scars and tattoos became visible again. His bones snapped and his blood fizzed… And then he scooped up the woman’s shoes with a human hand and held them towards her. ‘I believe these are yours.’

At first she was unable to speak. She swallowed, still shaking uncontrollably. After a moment, though, she pulled back her shoulders and raised her chin a fraction of an inch. There. That was better. ‘Thank you, Mr Webb,’ she murmured. Her trembling fingers took the shoes.

He grinned. ‘Call me Devereau.’ He nodded after her boyfriend who had flung himself into the lobby of his block of flats and was desperately trying to barricade the door with a plant pot. ‘You can probably do better than that, you know.’

All she could manage was a tiny nod. Devereau shrugged. On two feet rather than four, he wandered stark bollock naked towards his flat, pausing only to reach down and give himself a damned good scratch.

***

It had been easy to resist the urge to attack the couple; it was less easy to resist the urge to attack the four-inch-thick rib steak that he’d left on the kitchen counter. He’d been planning at least to sear it round the edges first, but his hunger got the better of him and he devoured it raw like a wild animal. He probably ought to work on that, he decided, as he licked his fingers.

He went to the fridge, took out a second steak and devoured that too.

His tastes had changed as well as his body. He no longer wanted curries with their clever layers of spice, and the bottle of hot sauce that he used to apply liberally to most of his food now lay unopened. He didn’t even need to sprinkle salt on his meals any more. As long as there was meat, and lots of it, he was happy.

Tossing the plate into the sink, Devereau tilted his head slightly. He grabbed the dressing gown that hung over the back of a chair and shrugged it on before moving to the front door. He opened it to reveal a short, dark-haired man whose fist was raised ready to knock. ‘You’re late, Gaz,’ he