Shelly Laurenston: Wolf with Benefits

“Didn’t you tell me yesterday to stay out of your business?” Ricky asked, grinning.

“Son of a—”

“Hey,” Ricky cut in. “There are pups here. Gotta watch your mouth.”

The She-jackal sighed. “Seriously?” she demanded. “I mean . . . seriously ?”

“What?”

“He’s getting the holy hell beaten out of him by a man whose hair just suddenly grew.”

“That’s his mighty mane. Only comes out when he’s really mad.”

“And you’re comfortable with him basically pummeling your brother?”

Ricky thought on that, but he must have taken too long to answer because the She-jackal handed off the boy in her arms to the teenager.

“It’s like I have to take care of everything, ” she snapped at Ricky before walking around to the two fighting males and yelled over the roaring, “Excuse me, Mister . . . uh . . .” She glanced back at the oldest boy, Kyle.

“Novikov,” Kyle prompted.

“Right. Mr. Novikov? Mr. Novikov! ”

The hybrid stopped, his hand still gripping Reece’s throat, his massive body still pinning the wolf to the ground. Slowly, he looked up at the jackal, mane nearly covering glowering blue eyes.

“Hi.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “I’m Antonella Jean-Louis Parker. Toni for short. That’s Toni with an ‘i,’ not a ‘y.’ Anyway, Ulrich Van Holtz may have mentioned that I was going to stop by today. And this is Kyle.” She snapped her fingers and the boy quickly moved to her side. “Kyle really wants your autograph and although I’m sorry to interrupt your . . . wolf-pummeling, I am on a bit of a schedule.” She tapped the sturdy-looking diving watch on her wrist. “So is there any way we could speed this up? Maybe you could assault the wolf later? Kyle would really appreciate it.”

The boy grinned. “I would!”

The hybrid studied the jackal for several long seconds before he nodded. “Schedules, I understand.” Then he looked down at Reece and roared in his face, “Schedules! Learn the concept!”

He released his grip on Reece and got to his mighty big feet. By the time Novikov stood, his mane had lessened considerably, something the She-jackal noticed, her eyes narrowing a bit. The hybrid faced her, his back now to Reece. That’s when he mule-kicked him, sending Ricky’s brother flying until he slammed into one of the many pillars around the building.

Ricky cringed. He sure bet that hurt.

“What do you want me to sign?”

“Get the shirt, Kyle.” The boy took off his backpack and quickly dug out a hockey jersey and a permanent marker. Based on the jersey’s colors it looked like it was from the Washington shifter hockey team. A team that the hybrid had once belonged to. That guy had belonged to a lot of teams, and to this day many of his past teammates still hated him.

The boy handed over the shirt and marker to the hybrid. As Novikov signed, he asked the boy, “So do you play hockey?”

“No, sir.”

“Really? How come?”

“Because I plan to use my brilliance for something real and important, not something petty like sports.”

The She-jackal cringed, her head dropping while Novikov’s head snapped up.

“Sorry?”

“See, what I like about what you do,” the boy explained, his hands accenting each word, his voice intense, “is the raw rage and violence. I can use that in my work. And while you’ll probably be forgotten soon after you retire, which is the way of you athletic types whose happiest years are usually when you’re in high school”—he glanced back at his teenage sister and she rewarded him with the one-finger salute—“ my legacy will live on for centuries. People will study my work, copy it. My work will start a new art movement, a new wave of creativity born out of blood and violence and rage. And you . . . you, Mr. Novikov, will be my David.”

“David?”

“Like Michelangelo’s David ? But instead my piece will be called Jean-Louis Parker’s Novikov, and it will be the greatest art anyone has ever seen. And you . . . you, Mr. Novikov, will be my muse.”

The hybrid blinked and then finally asked exactly what Ricky was thinking. “How old are you?”

“Eleven. But I don’t allow my age to hold me back from my future. Only those weak of mind do that.”

Novikov sighed and handed the signed shirt back to the boy. “I wish I could say you disgust me, but I understand you more than you’ll ever realize, kid. So go forth and kick ass.”

“I will. Thank you!”

He nodded at the boy, then the jackal. “Ma’am,” he said before he started back toward the rink.

But that’s when the kid threw out, “And is there a chance I can sketch you naked?”

Novikov stopped walking, his entire body jerking a bit. The She-jackal’s eyes popped open wide at the child’s question, her hand slapping across his mouth and yanking him against her body as Novikov faced them.

“He’s just kidding,” she quickly said before Novikov could ask. “He’s just kidding.”

The boy struggled against the jackal, his muffled words sounding like, “No, I’m not!” But the jackal didn’t release her grip, merely smiled. “And thanks for the autograph.”

Novikov nodded, grunted, and walked back to the rink, the big doors slamming behind him.

That’s when she released the boy, and using the hand not still holding the youngest brother, spun Kyle around so he faced her.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“It was just a question. He should feel privileged. The greatest artist ever known found his physique worthy of my precious attention. He should be bowing at my feet for such an honor.”

The She-jackal stared at him for several seconds before announcing, “You’re an idiot. And if you ever do that again, or I find out from someone else that you did it again, I’m going to kick your ass from here all the way back to Washington.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do you understand me?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t—”

She grabbed the boy by the back of his neck and yanked him up with one hand. He dangled a good four feet off the ground, his gaze locked with the She-jackal’s. “Do you understand, Kyle?” she asked again.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

She released him and shoved the signed shirt back into his hands once he landed on firm ground.

The teenager sighed. “Can we just go already?”

“We have to see Ric first. Here. Take Dennis.”

The jackal handed off the youngest boy before turning to stare at Ricky. He gazed back. Smiled.

After a few moments of that, she asked, “Are you going to give her back to me?”

That’s when Ricky realized he still held the little pup he’d pulled out of the way of Novikov’s rage.

“Oh. Sorry about that.” Ricky handed the pup over. She’d fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder, her fist shoved in her mouth. She whined a little as the transfer was made, but settled back to sleep once the jackal had her.

“Thank you,” the She-jackal said, and gave him a small smile.

It was the smile that did it, more than the politeness.

“You know,” Ricky began, “if you’re not busy tonight—”

Pointing at Ricky with her cell phone, the teen asked, “Are you our daddy?”

Disgusted, Ricky stated to the jackal, “Woman, there has to be an easier way for you to get rid of a man.”

“Perhaps, but I’ve found that there’s nothing quicker. “She winked at him, then gestured behind him with her chin. “And you may want to check on your brother—he’s still bleeding.”

“Yeah. I think Novikov nicked an artery . . . again.”

She stopped, glanced back at him. But with a little snort-laugh, she walked off without another word.