Chapter Three

Brock met the first wave emerging through the trees and tore into them with claws and teeth. He was taking no prisoners. As far as he was concerned, they’d sealed their fate by attacking. Jensen and Fletch were both somewhere nearby, as were a few others. Hell, he’d even seen Jasper pull himself into the doorway of the cabin where he was convalescing and use a rifle to pick off people. It didn’t surprise him. All of the cabins were fully stocked with weapons and ammo, and Jasper was far too weak to shift, if he even could after years in captivity. Still, his strength shown in the way he carried himself, the way he fought with all he had to protect the den.

Brock roared as he took a hit to his back leg. A knife. The blade was wicked sharp, and the prick wielding it made sure it did the maximum amount of damage as he ripped it out. Brock turned, swiping his massive paw and slicing the male’s throat wide. Blood sprayed, coating his fur, but he moved on to the next hunter then the next one.

At some point, his leg went out, and he realized there’d either been something on the blade or the hit had been deeper than he’d assumed. Still, he fought. He wasn’t letting anyone get into the cabins that held their wounded, most of them females who’d only recently been rescued from years of torture at the hands of the very enemy attacking them now.

All he knew was, the next enemy then the next and the next until Jensen was in his face, no longer in bear form, yelling at him.

“It’s over. You’re hurt. Let me take a look.”

Brock shook his head, his vision weaving in and out. He tried to look around, to assess for further risk, but he had nothing left to give. As if his tank was completely empty, his body collapsed. He hit the ground hard. His ears rang. Whatever Jensen was saying, Brock had no idea. All he knew was, he was exhausted. He shifted, groaning as fur morphed back to flesh. His thigh burned.

“What the hell is going on?” he growled as Jensen and Fletch helped him to his feet. “Why would they attack?”

“We’ll find out,” Fletch assured him as they entered the cabin Jensen used as an office. “There should be a few left breathing we can get answers from.”

“Go,” Jensen ordered. “Check in with the others. Make sure any wounded get sent here.”

“I’ll get Milo and a couple of Helen’s brothers, Thomas and Ryan, to help me search. Thad might if Sam stays with Hadley and Megan. Helen will stay with her sister, too, and her niece.”

Brock knew Fletch wouldn’t worry about his mate as long as she was with her family. Sam Carson, who’d once been a member of Em’s den in Washington state, had found his wife, Hadley, and her friend Megan when they’d escaped from the hunters who’d taken them captive. Sam had mated Helen’s sister immediately, and when Hadley had talked him into heading back to Washington to look for her family, Megan had met her mate, Helen and Hadley’s brother, Thad. The fact they’d all wound up in Wyoming with the Holloways shortly after Helen had been rescued and she’d mated Fletch had been unbelievable. Hadley had been heavily pregnant at the time and only recently given birth to a beautiful baby girl. Hell, the whole den doted on her. Especially the pregnant mates, Em, Sidia, and Jaeda.

Fletch clasped Brock on the shoulder. “I’ll see if I can find Jemma, though I doubt anything could bring down the little dynamo. Maybe, if I tell her you’re hurt, she’ll come check on you. Probably yell at you for being stupid, but it’ll get her here.”

Brock chuckled. She’d probably rub his face in getting injured. He knew Fletch was trying to make him feel better, and he appreciated it. Though the attack was over, there were still plenty of injured among their den. They’d been caught unaware once again, and he had no idea how badly they’d paid for it. Which meant he needed to get off his ass and get back out there to help. Finding Jemma might be his priority, but once he knew she was okay, the two of them could focus on everyone else.

“How bad is it?” Brock asked as Jensen assessed his leg.

Jensen probed Brock’s thigh.

“Shit,” Brock hissed. “That fucking hurts.”

“You took a knife to the thigh,” Jensen said as if Brock wasn’t aware.

“It burns.”

“My guess is, there was something on the blade. They’re good at that.” Jensen bent low and inhaled right over Brock’s wound. “You’ve bled quite a bit. That might be good, though. Whatever they used, the scent is faint. You either bled it out, or there wasn’t much left by the time you were stabbed. The muscle’s already knitting back together. I’ll stitch and wrap your leg, and you should be good by tomorrow. Let me know if anything feels off with that wound and try not to overdo it with search and rescue. Maybe, stay here and help me with the wounded. Jemma will find her way here eventually. She’s a fair hand with a needle and thread and has a good bedside manner.”

“What?” Brock asked.

“She spends a lot of time here, talking with some of the survivors we brought in. She’s good with them, good for them. She brings an energy they’ve been lacking. I’d love to see her train for the medical field. Doctor, nurse, EMT. Whatever she wants. She’d be fantastic.”

Brock shook his head. He’d known she was helping Jensen but hadn’t realized the extent.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Do I even know her?”

“You haven’t even tried. You’ve been too busy pushing her away. Why fight yourself so hard when we all know she’s who you want?” Jensen asked as he tossed Brock a pair of shorts.

Brock didn’t say anything as he pulled them on. Obviously, he wasn’t fooling anyone with rejecting Jemma as his mate. Plus, Jensen was right. It was Jemma Brock needed to see. He needed to know she was okay. He was fighting a losing battle. It was only a matter of time before he claimed her. If she allowed it. His behavior hadn’t endeared him to her in the least. A fact he could only blame himself for.

“Your mate is alive, brother. Do you have any idea how lucky you are?” Jensen questioned.

“She’s young,” Brock said again. “Too young to be tied to a mate for the rest of her life.”

And she would be. Once he claimed her, there would be no other for either of them.

“Did you ask her that?” Jensen hedged. “No, you didn’t. You decided that all on your own. Hell, she’s covered herself in your scent more than once. Searches you out even when every encounter ends with the two of you at each other’s throats.”

Brock growled at the truth of those words. His heated encounters with Jemma usually ended in him stomping away to hide the effect she had on him. It was all he could do not to throw her over his shoulder then carry her to one of the cabins, toss her on the bed, strip them both to the skin, and claim her. He didn’t think she was ready for all the things he wanted to do to and with her.

“Laramie thinks she’ll try to leave,” Brock confessed.

“Will you let her?” Jensen asked as he turned toward the door. “Or will you give her a reason to stay?”

“I—”

The door pushed open before Brock could finish his answer. Holt stood in the doorway, blood staining his shirt and jeans, a rifle slung over his shoulder. He appeared as strong and fierce as the Marine he’d once been.

“Injured are heading this way, now,” he said as he motioned for Jensen and Brock to follow him back outside. “We’ve got people on the way to help out. Tell them where you want them.” Holt’s gaze moved from Jensen to the bandage on Brock’s thigh. “How bad?”

“Already healing. Laramie, Em, and the others?”

“Laramie has a few scratches. Koby, Matheus, and I helped him guard the main house,” Holt offered. “We managed to keep a few of the attackers alive for interrogation. Laramie and Koby already took them to the cabin we used previously for that.”

The cabin they’d used for the hunters they’d captured while rescuing Helen and so many other female shifters, bears and other species. Each interrogation had led them to a new location. Some, they’d been too late when they arrived. Others, they’d managed to reach in time.

“We’ve got people searching the woods for any of our den that might be too wounded to make it back,” Holt continued.

Brock knew what Holt wasn’t saying. They needed to see if any of their den had been killed in the skirmish. He hoped not. They’d taken too many losses. At some point, the hits had to stop coming.

“Em and the others?” Brock asked.

“No one got into the lodge.”

Jensen took the reins and asked the next question before Brock could. “Who all was inside?”

“Em, Jaeda, Sidia, and a few others,” Holt said, seeming oblivious to who Brock wanted information on.

“Christ, man. Was Jemma with them?” Brock thundered.

“I don’t know.” Holt glared at him. “If you’d claimed your mate and formed a bond with her, instead of rejecting her, then you’d know if she was okay.”

Brock growled. He was getting tired of being called out for his stupidity. It was enough already. But the human member of their den didn’t back down. He got right in Brock’s face.

“I know where my mate is. I know she’s safe. I feel her.” Holt pounded his hand on his chest. “I hear her.” He tapped his temple. “She’s a part of me that I’ll never lose. Mate your fucking mate, Brock, and stop letting her run circles around you.”

Brock wanted to roar with fury, and he had no one to blame but himself. He’d made excuse after excuse as to why he couldn’t mate Jemma. She was young. She’d tried to get Laramie to choose her as a mate. She was immature. She was irritating. Yet, none of them mattered right now. He’d been drawn to her as much as it seemed she was to him. Hell, she even wore his jackets and sweatshirts if he left them around. On more than one morning, he’d woken with one hugged close while he breathed in her scent that lingered on the cloth. What he really wanted was to wake up wrapped around her, to roll her over and slide inside her, deep, filling her with every inch of the turgid length of his desire.

He was done waiting. Done battling himself. Jemma was his mate. There were things they needed to discuss. Answers he needed and, most likely, ones he’d have to give, as well. Right now, he needed to hold her close, feel her skin against his, and assure himself she was safe and whole.

“I need to find Jemma.”

“Brock! Jensen!” Milo Calderson, Fletch’s younger brother, ran toward them. “It’s Jemma! Fletch found her close to the edge of the property. He’s heading this way with her now. She’s hurt. Bad. Deep knife wound to the side. She bled a lot. She’s unconscious.”

“Fuck!” Brock roared. “How far out?”

“Three minutes,” Milo shared.

“What else?” Holt demanded, obviously picking up on something Brock couldn’t focus on.

“Muriel’s missing.”

“She’s here,” Jasper called, reminding them he was there. “She’s with me.”

The woman in question poked her head out of the cabin door, but Jasper stopped her before she could move past him.

“Get back inside until they make sure the threat is really over,” he ordered as he glanced at her. Whatever he saw had him tacking on, “Please.”

“Somebody better let me know how Jemma is as soon as she’s been assessed,” Muriel called before moving back into the cabin.

Brock focused on the sound of the ATV as it got closer. He was already moving as Fletch pulled in, reaching him quickly and taking Jemma from him. She was light in Brock’s arms, too light, too quiet. He kept glancing at her face, waiting for her to blink open those big blue eyes and sass him. She didn’t move, her face appearing even paler around the blood that covered her.

“Jensen,” he growled.

“I’ve got her. I swear. I won’t let you lose her.”

Brock prayed his brother could keep that promise.