Read Online Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) by Kristin Miller - Free Book Online Page B

heavily.
    “It’s closed. See the sign?” She pointed. “He must be somewhere else. Any other ideas?”
    “Not everything is as it seems, miss.” He parked on the street in front and put the car in park. “I’ll wait for you here.”
    Hesitant, Isabelle slid out, leaving the painting behind in his safekeeping. In parts of downtown Dublin, she might’ve been frightened walking around by herself in the evening. But San Francisco was alive at night. Illuminated with possibility. Cars honked and sped through red lights, and the bars were still overflowing.
    Isabelle peeked in the windows of Kicking Kango’s. It was dark inside, and not a single scent of a werewolf tingled her nose.
    “Where are you?” she whispered, turning back to the street. “This can’t be it, but Branson said…”
    And then she heard it.
    A guttural moan. Scratches of claws through flesh. Muffled cheering.
    Couldn’t be right…
    Moving along the side of the Kicking Whatever, Isabelle tiptoed, listening. More of the same. Hissing and spitting. A low roar. Clapping? The sounds were primal, raw and real. And they were coming from the basement. From out of nowhere, the scent of a wolf struck her.
    The tallest, largest guy—scratch that… werewolf— that she’d ever seen turned the corner. She startled, hugging the wall of the building. It wasn’t his size that had her holding her breath as he passed by, though he was well over six feet six, three hundred pounds of pure muscle. No, it was the blood trickling down his temples that had her staring bug-eyed.
    “Evening.” He spoke as if he were going on a nice nightly stroll. As if the blood trickling down his temples hadn’t just dripped onto his collared shirt.
    She swallowed hard. “Good evening.”
    Keeping her eye on him, Isabelle weaved around the corner and faced a heavy door. The guy had to have come from here. Unless he was Dumpster diving. But there wasn’t any garbage back here for him to dig in.
    A sharp cry split the night, followed by the unmistakable stench of testosterone. It burned her nose, dark and crisp. And then a wave of Jack’s scent hit her. It was musky and crisp, and made her stomach tighten.
    Without thinking, she knocked on the door. It opened a sliver, and a man’s face—beady black eyes, wide nose, thin lips—filled the space. He was a werewolf, young and stupid, from the reckless smell of him.
    “Yes?” He looked her up and down and sniffed the air, checking to make sure she was one of his kind. “Admission for one is fifty. Cash only.”
    “Admission?” She shook cobwebs out of her head. “For what?”
    Growling floated through the sliver in the door, followed by a pained moan.
    The man’s beady eyes shifted into the room behind him and then back to her. “Someone must’ve told you about our underground werewolf fight club. You’re here, aren’t ya?”
    “Werewolf”—she lowered her voice as the word punched out of her—“fight club?” How twisted. Is this what the werewolves in the city did when they were bored? What Neanderthals they were. Members of the Irish Wolf Pack would never participate in anything this barbaric. “No, I don’t want to come in. I was looking for Jack MacGrath. Do you know if he’s in there somewhere?”
    “Oh, he’s here all right.” He barked out a sinister laugh. “But he’s in no shape to come out and talk to ya.”
    What did that mean? Was he drunk? Passed out?
    “Do you mind if I come in to talk to him myself? I’ll only be a minute.”
    “If you pay the cost of admission, you can talk to him all damned night.”
    Rolling her eyes, Isabelle fished sixty dollars out of her purse. The doorman pocketed the bills. And kept her change. She felt his eyes on her back as she entered, and then descended down a set of narrow stairs. Clearly, if there was a fight club happening downstairs after hours, the business was San Francisco Wolf Pack owned and maintained.
    Couldn’t they do anything better with