Shelly Laurenston: Big Bad Beast

Her father nodded in agreement while Van could do nothing but gawk at the girl. Sure, he’d spent the last few weeks with Ric teaching the kid how to use his knife set to quickly and efficiently butcher deer and wild boar, but that was for cooking purposes only, so he could one day take his place in their Pack’s restaurant business. This little girl, however, was talking about knives going through chest bone—Van didn’t think she meant the chest bone of a zebra.

“How much?” Smith asked her.

“He wanted two hundred for it. I got him down to eighty.”

“How’d ya do that?”

“Stared at him ’til he made it eighty.”

The wolf dug into his pocket and gave her four twenty-dollar bills, then handed over the blade. “Take good care of it, it’ll take good care of you, Sugar Bug.”

“I will, Daddy.” She ambled off to the vendor and Smith faced Van again.

They locked gazes and stayed that way for how long, Van really didn’t know. But it must have been long enough, because Smith finally said, “Don’t much like feelin’ hemmed in.”

“You won’t be. You have my word.”

The wolf snorted. “The word of a Van Holtz. That don’t mean much.”

“To me it does.” Fed up, Van finally asked, “In or out, Mr. Smith?”

Smith looked him over one more time and said, “In.”

The little girl returned, her new knife clutched in her hand. “He even gave me a sheath, Daddy. It’s real leather.”

“Good girl.” He motioned to Van. “This is one of them Van Holtz wolves I’m always warning you about. They all look like him. Kinda skinny and snobby. Smell like him, too. Avoid ’em, if you can. Gut ’em if you can’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

Not exactly the introduction Van expected but . . . whatever. It didn’t matter.

At least it didn’t matter until he realized that his young cousin was no longer on the hood of the car but standing right next to Van, leaning against his side, wide eyes fastened on Smith’s little girl.

She scowled down at Ric, but as he continued to gaze up at her in awe, her scowl faded and she smiled. “What’cha lookin’ at, shorty?” she asked, her young voice teasing.

Ric didn’t answer—Van had the feeling the poor kid couldn’t answer—but he did hold out one of the plain Hershey bars he kept stashed in his bag.

She looked at the candy bar, then up at her father. He nodded and she took the candy from Ric. After a moment, she said, “Thank ya kindly,” and her smile grew.

Ric let out a sigh and blurted, “Marry—”

Van slapped his hand over Ric’s mouth before he could finish. He might only be a defenseless six-year-old with more brains than sense and caught up in his first childhood infatuation, which he probably wouldn’t remember in another day or two, but something told Van none of that would matter to Egbert Smith when it came to protecting his daughter.

“All right then,” Van said, dragging his struggling cousin over to the car. “Time to go. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Smith.”

Van got the car door open and shoved his cousin inside. He followed, throwing the kid’s pack into the back seat. Once he had the door closed and saw Smith and his daughter walking off, Van let out a breath.

“Kid,” he said, “you have got to learn about timing.”

“But she’s perfect, Uncle Van. I think I love her.”

Van glanced over at the still-growing She-wolf. A too-skinny little girl with long legs and arms in a T-shirt and denim cutoffs and no shoes.

“Ric, you’re way too young to love anybody but your parents and, of course, me.”

“She needs to eat more,” Ric observed, ignoring Van’s comment. “And I’ll be the one to feed her!”

Rolling his eyes, Van started the car.

“Come on, Ric,” he tried desperately to reason with the kid. “You’re too young for all this crazy mate stuff. You need to focus on other things first.”

“Like what?”

“Food, your hunting skills . . . even other girls,” he answered honestly.

“I hate girls.” He was six. Of course, he hated girls. “She’s not a girl, though. She’s amazing. ”

The first time the kid had spoken so many words in a solid five-minute stretch and he was doing nothing but absolutely freaking Van out.

“She’s perfect for me, Uncle Van.”

“No, Ulrich. She’s not. From what I can tell she’s just like her father and that means she needs to be avoided at all possible costs. Understand?”

Ric nodded, carefully buckling his seatbelt and pulling out his book again.

“I understand, Uncle Van.”

“Good,” Van said, reversing out of the parking spot.

“I’ll wait until we’re both older,” the kid went on, “and then I’ll nail her .”

Van hit the brakes. “What?”

“Like you and Aunt Irene.”

Panic beginning to set in, Van asked again, “ What? ”

“That’s what you told her last night when I was scrubbing the pots from dinner. You were going to nail her. Then you laughed.”

Oh, shit. “Uh, Ric . . .”

“And so I’ll just wait until my future mate and I are older and then I’ll nail her. Or we’ll nail each other. That sounds like more fun. Nailing each other.”

“Listen, Ulrich—”

“What is that, anyway? Nailing? The way Aunt Irene smiled when you said it, I’m guessing it’s fun, right?”

Van rested his head against the steering wheel and wondered how bad a meltdown Ric’s father would have over this. Uptight, rich snob that Alder Van Holtz was, Van was guessing . . . bad.

Eggie Ray Smith closed his truck door and let out a breath. His baby girl went up on her knees in the passenger seat and faced him. “You’re leaving again, ain’tcha, Daddy?”

“Off and on.”

“Momma won’t be happy.”

“I know.” His mate liked having him around. Not underfoot, mind you. She couldn’t stand that. But she liked to know he was just a “holler away” when she sent the call out that dinner was ready.

“But you have to go,” his little girl said, her hand pressed against his shoulder. “You’ve got important things to do, Daddy. And like Big Poppa always says, you can’t do ’em if you’re sittin’ in the backyard having tea and cakes, now can ya?”

Unable to stop his grin, Eggie looked at Dee-Ann Smith. Of all the things he’d done over the years, being the father of this little girl was definitely the most important and fulfilling. “You’re right, Sugar Bug. I can’t.”

“Besides, I can watch out for Momma. Nobody’s gettin’ past me to get to her.”

Eggie knew that. He’d made sure that if there was one thing his baby girl could do, it was protect herself and those she loved. Not just fight, mind, but protect herself. He’d learned in the Corps that there was a difference between scrappin’ and protection. An important difference. Because any idiot could fight.

“That’s right. They won’t.” He stroked her cheek with his fingers. “You like your gift, Sugar Bug?”

Her grin was wide. “Yep.”

“Good. Happy birthday.” He started the truck. “And don’t tell your momma. We’ll pick you up something else on the way home. But the knife is between us for a few more . . . well . . . years . Understand?”

She tucked the knife in the back of her denim cutoffs and sat down in the seat. “Yep.”

“Good girl. Now eat your chocolate.”

She studied the still-wrapped bar of chocolate. “That was a cute kid,” she said.

“Still a Van Holtz,” Eggie reminded her. “You’ve gotta avoid the Van Holtzes.”

“But he’s so cute and little,” she argued. “And he looked smart, too. Bet he could help me build a real nice fort so I can fight off those savages, the Reed boys.”