Erin gulped. She lifted her skirt up for him, aware of a quiver in her belly.
And in her sex.
More, please.
He pulled the panties up. The bikini design rode low on her hips. His mouth brushed her belly, then pressed against the crotch of her panties.
She tried to suck in enough air for her starving lungs. “J-Jude—”
One more kiss, then he pulled away. “This case is ending,” he repeated and rose to his feet, “but we aren’t.”
Her skirt fell seamlessly back into place. The lust gnawed at her, burning and pumping through her.
She stared into his eyes, and there was only one answer to give. “No, we aren’t.” Because she wasn’t an idiot. No way would she walk away from a man who could—
A rap at the door. “Uh…the DA is looking for you, Erin.” Zane’s expressionless voice.
Hell.
Jude licked his lips. “Later, we’ll do things our way again.”
Wild. Sounded great. She held his stare a moment longer and gave a fierce nod. That freaking knot in her throat was back so the nod was pretty much all she could manage.
“I have some leads to follow, but I’ll pick you up tonight.”
He eased away, headed for the door.
Erin scrambled for her shoes. The DA. Court. She toed into her pumps just as he yanked open the door. “Wait! Jude!”
He glanced back at her, and her breath caught. The man was really something.
“Wh-what kind of leads?”
“The kind that I hope will take me right to the stalker.”
He’d told her the case would be ending soon. He’d meant those words, she realized. “Be careful.”
“Always.”
Zane was waiting for him. Jude bent toward the demon and she heard her shifter say, “I’m going to the den.”
Zane seemed to stiffen a bit at that.
Then Jude strode away. He didn’t look back, and Erin stared after him, feeling like she should say something, but having no idea what.
It’s not over.
No, it wasn’t.
Chapter 17
An hour later, Jude entered hell.
From the outside, hell appeared pretty unassuming. It looked just like an old building, one with a few beat-up cars lining the broken lot. A drunk or two sprawled on the sidewalk outside the square, squat structure.
Appearances were so deceiving.
Dammit, I f**king hate demons’ dens.
And he really did. Of all the shitholes in the world, the demons’ dens were the worst. He hated them. Hated the stench.
Hated the blood and booze. And Jude hated the drugged out demons who flocked to the dens looking for their next fix.
Demons. Talk about an addictive personality. He’d never come across supernaturals who were as hooked on drugs as demons. Some demons, all they lived for was their next hit.
They always had to get more. Had to get lost. To forget.
There were rumors that the demons had to turn to the drugs. Especially if they were unlucky enough to have the whispered Dark Touch.
The Dark Touch. It was another name, a more fitting one, for the psychic powers that turned some demons into conduits for the dregs of human society—killers, ra**sts, child molesters.
Yeah, the rumors were that the drugs quieted or, in some cases, even severed that twisted link. But the problem was, once the demons started the drugs, it was a fast downward spiral.
Demons just got addicted too fast.
That addiction fear was one of the reasons Zane didn’t so much as drink or smoke. Jude knew the demon had seen his father go down the drug path, with gruesome results.
Jude inhaled, caught the stench in the air, and knew he was in the right place.
Or maybe the wrong one.
The den waited for him. A hole in the middle of hell. Looked like a drug house, smelled like a drug house—because it was a drug house.
But the demons in there, they would talk. They’d tell him all he needed to know about Rogue wolves. Because if anybody knew about predators, it was those bastards.
It had been another grade A bastard who’d led him to this sour side of hell. Mickey had called him—yeah, somehow the bastard was already out on bail—and told him about the den. According to fast talking Mickey, Jude would find exactly what he needed in there.
The tip hadn’t been free, of course. Nothing was free. He’d just have to wait and see what price Mickey demanded. Not that he’d actually pay the bastard.
Jude rapped hard on the old door. A demon with a giant rod shoved through his nose jerked it open. Jude flashed him a twenty.
The demon’s gaze darted over him, then he smiled and eased back.
Erin’s sweet scent clung to Jude’s skin—he’d just had to claim her once more, couldn’t resist that temptation, but the stench of the den wrapped around him as he crossed the threshold.
And he went deeper into the demons’ den.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mickey McQueen rocked back and forth on his heels. He’d gotten out of jail— finally—and was ready to blow this city.
But first…
First he wanted his money.
He stood on the street corner, glancing to the left and to the right. He still couldn’t believe his luck.
That tiger wouldn’t know what hit him.
Mickey laughed.
But he choked back the sound when a long, black car pulled up to the curb.
This was it. His ticket to fast times.
He grabbed the door handle. Jumped inside.
“You told the hunter?”
Damn but it was hot in there. Didn’t the guy know to turn on the f**king air in Louisiana? Mickey gave a grim nod. “Yeah, yeah, told him everything you said.”
Mr. Money had approached him at his arraignment. Mr. Money—Mickey liked to call him that because the bastard was gonna be giving him a shitload of money. He figured the name fit. Mr. Money had paid his bail in cash and promised him a hell of a lot more.
All he had to do was just make one phone call.
Easiest job he’d ever done.
A soft snick of sound—the doors had locked. Must be one of those automatic deals.
Mickey rubbed his fingers together. “You got my money?” He already had it spent. New clothes. Fast ride. Good-bye cops.
The car eased away from the curve. “I’ve got it.”
Fucking A. “So…” He had to know. “What’s gonna happen to the tiger?” He hoped the bastard got torn up. Clawed from head to foot.
The car turned into an alley. Mr. Money glanced over at him, smiling with too-sharp teeth.
What the hell? The guy couldn’t be a shifter.
“I’m going to rip him apart.”