Tamed By The She-Wolf

скачать книгу бесплатно


Though angry and hurt by Tanner’s rejection, Angeline didn’t immediately stop loving him. Not knowing his whereabouts or his situation had been an unrelenting torture. Until one day when a sharp pain sliced all the way to her soul. In that moment, she knew Tanner was dead. He would never come home to her. He would never come home to anyone, except in a box.

Despite Lincoln’s request for her not to leave, Angeline walked away and collected the drinks from the bar. Delivering the beverages to appropriate patrons, she caught a glimpse of Lincoln making his way to the exit.

Good riddance, she thought without truly meaning it. Neither Tanner’s choices nor his fate were Lincoln’s fault.

A deep part of herself compelled Angeline to apologize for her behavior. Another part of her refused.

As a Dogman, Lincoln represented the very ideal she hated. She’d lost her first love—her only love—to the Program, and it destroyed the life they should’ve had.

Lincoln slipped out of the restaurant and Angeline’s heart clenched, a phantom ache that his ridiculous homage had resurrected. It had absolutely nothing to do with the devastated look on his face when she’d left his table.

And if she told herself that enough times, by the time she got off work she might actually believe it.

Chapter 7 (#u484207a4-2c17-5558-bff5-b92a662a77e9)

“Lila!”

Lincoln wrenched himself awake before hitting the ground in his nightmare. In reality, he couldn’t remember anything past those first moments of falling out the window. His mind remained blank until the moment he woke up, alone in the hospital at the Program’s headquarters in Germany a week later, missing a leg.

Whenever he asked about his team, the medical staff would merely pat his shoulder and say that he needed to focus on his own recovery. The tight smiles and averted eyes that followed told him all he needed to know.

His team was dead. And he was to blame.

Lincoln threw aside the sheets and sat up. His breaths continued to come hard and fast and would likely continue until his heart stopped forcibly pounding from the dream-induced adrenaline rush.

Swinging his good leg over the side of the bed, he stared at his scarred stump. Life would never be the same but he refused to simply accept retirement and quietly fade into the background. Not until he finished what he started. For Dayax. And for his team, whose loyalty had been rewarded with death.

Heavy-handedly, Lincoln rubbed his stump, stinging with phantom sensations. The physical therapist had chided him for being too aggressive with the desensitizing massage. The doctors had said the same about his push for recovery. They didn’t understand that the pain distracted him from the quagmire of self-pity and gave him a definitive obstacle to conquer.

He squirmed into his knee shorts and snatched the sleeve off the nightstand. Pulling on the elastic-like fabric, he smoothed out the wrinkles until the material gloved his stump like his own skin, except for the glaring pale color that was nowhere near his naturally brown skin tone. He reached for the bionic limb that had fallen to the floor and fitted the cup onto the remaining part of his leg.

Carefully standing, Lincoln rocked on the prosthetic, allowing his weight to push out the air while his stump slid securely into place. The first steps were tentative. By the time he reached the open bedroom door, his gait became as fluid as it could be walking on an artificial leg.

The lights were on in the living room and kitchen. Even though his wolfan vision allowed him to see clearly in the dark, he didn’t want to take a chance of tripping over something he’d overlooked.

Staring into the refrigerator at the lunch meat and four bottles out of a six-pack of beer, Lincoln knew he’d have to get more substantial food soon. A creepy-crawly feeling spread across his chest. He shivered, shaking off the sensation that gave rise to a childhood memory he’d rather not revisit.

Lincoln grabbed a beer and closed the refrigerator door. Eating civilian food rather than rations and mess hall grub, and civilian life in general, felt odd. Especially since he didn’t have his team alongside him. They had done everything together. And he missed them, more than he could ever express.

The satphone on the counter chimed and an unknown number flashed across the screen. His heart suddenly beat double-time.

Lincoln picked up the phone. “Adams.”

“¿Que pasa, capitán?” The masculine voice shocked Lincoln’s ear.

His heart stilled and the blood in his veins cooled. Without heat, his muscles froze up and yet his knees felt weak and rubbery.

Phone in hand and plastered against his ear, Lincoln leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. “¿Quién eres tú?”

“It’s Damien,” the man said. “Did the fallout of that two-story building screw up your brain?”

“Damien Marquez died over two months ago,” Lincoln answered as his “screwed-up” brain tried to reconcile the familiar voice he heard to the belief that his team had perished in the explosion.

“I’m not dead, Linc,” the man on the other end of the line continued. “In case you’re wondering, neither are the others. Well, except for Lila. There wasn’t even enough of her—”

“Shut the hell up, Marquez.” The guy really had no tact.

“Now you sound like the guy I remember.” Damien snorted.

“I don’t see what’s so funny.”

“You never did.” A stark pause hung between them.

“How did you make it out of the building before it collapsed?” Lincoln asked, not wanting to give in to a mounting sense of relief.

“The blast knocked me off the stairs and I landed on the ground floor. Brax and Nico pulled me out.” The dark emotion in Damien’s voice as he spoke suggested he clearly remembered every horrifying moment. “Sam—she took care of you until the medics arrived.”

All but one member of his team had survived. One of the worry knots in Lincoln’s chest loosened.