Fangs of Anarchy - Forbidden Alpha (Part 3) Were in the World is Gannon Dodd?: A Werewolf Vampire Shifter Romance by Dakota Cassidy Page A
Authors: Dakota Cassidy
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at her face as she fought the choppy waves and snow began to fall in fat white flakes.
Her car had sunk like the Titanic, but thankfully, due to her strength, she was able to break the windshield and swim to the surface minus too many cuts.
And now here she was, on the surface, freezing her ass off. She fought to untangle herself from her coat and scarf, items that would only slow her down with the weight of the water. If Courtland was responsible for this, he owed her a new damn wardrobe.
Her heart thr obbed against her ribs and her teeth chattered as each frosty wave crashed over her body while she fought like hell to keep from succumbing to fatigue. The hell she’d drown in the Atlantic Ocean before she had the chance to do what needed to be done.
That thought made her fight harder.
Visibility grew worse by the second as her eyes scanned the landscape for some rocks, anything to swim toward that would give her respite. Hypothermia would set in if she stayed in the water much longer, which pushed her to k eep her arms and legs moving.
Anxiety warred with fear when she thought of missing her meeting at the lighthouse. What if something had happened and she hadn’t been there to prevent it? What if it was too late?
Who had driven her off the side of the bluff—and why?
The quick glimpse she’d gotten of the truck before she’d toppled over the craggy rocks hadn’t at all resembled Courtland’s, or any belonging to the Dogs.
Panic gripped her as she wondered if her accident was a result of her pending meeting at the lighthouse. Oh God. Please let everything be okay.
“Claire!”
She heard her name over the roar of the waves, sputtering a cough when the salty water invaded her mouth.
She stopped flopping momentarily, stilling her body to listen again, gasping for air, fig hting the numbness crawling along her legs and arms.
But there was nothing.
As she lifted her arms to begin again, stinging pain sliced through her frozen limbs, making her cry out loud.
Focus, Claire, you’re superhuman, for Christ’s sake. Swim, bitch, swi m!
Her vision began to blur, her breathing growing shallow, her brain a fuzzy clump of cotton candy—until she heard it again.
“Claire!”
Irish. Yeah, that sounded like Irish!
Oh, you moron, how could that be Irish? No one knows where you are. She was delusional. Did that happen when hypothermia set in?
Wait. As a werewolf, could she even die from hypothermia? Was it really only silver bullets and wolfsbane that could do them in? Because neither of those elements were involved in Gannon’s death. But she was a little fuzzy on the were handbook right now.
Jesus. She was a librarian involved in a murder. A librarian . How had this happened? How had her quiet life come to this?
Her head began to drum out a painful beat when she flopped to her back, hoping to float in order to catch her breath, her teeth gnashing together from chattering. The sky was covered in clouds swishing back and forth to the tune of the wind, the snow falling from them battering her face.
“Claire!”
It was muffled and watery, but she’d swear…
“Claaaire!”
That was so Irish.
Oh, it was not. What would he be doing out here in the middle of the ocean, Claire? Besides, do vampires swim? And even if they do, again, why would he be here when no one knows where you are?
Even in death, when you should be reflecting on your life, atoning for your sins, you’re hearing Irish, still dreaming up scenarios involving him as your hero. Really, Claire, what does this say about you as a strong, independent woman? And if you’re going to dream up someone calling your name, why not go for the gold and set your sights on Hugh Jackman? You do remember Wolverine, don’t you? Sure, Irish is super-duper hot, but is he Wolverine hot?
Her name roared in her ears again, only this time the voice was rig ht up against her eardrum, the lips pressed to the outer shell of it, cold.
Strong hands grabbed her
Her car had sunk like the Titanic, but thankfully, due to her strength, she was able to break the windshield and swim to the surface minus too many cuts.
And now here she was, on the surface, freezing her ass off. She fought to untangle herself from her coat and scarf, items that would only slow her down with the weight of the water. If Courtland was responsible for this, he owed her a new damn wardrobe.
Her heart thr obbed against her ribs and her teeth chattered as each frosty wave crashed over her body while she fought like hell to keep from succumbing to fatigue. The hell she’d drown in the Atlantic Ocean before she had the chance to do what needed to be done.
That thought made her fight harder.
Visibility grew worse by the second as her eyes scanned the landscape for some rocks, anything to swim toward that would give her respite. Hypothermia would set in if she stayed in the water much longer, which pushed her to k eep her arms and legs moving.
Anxiety warred with fear when she thought of missing her meeting at the lighthouse. What if something had happened and she hadn’t been there to prevent it? What if it was too late?
Who had driven her off the side of the bluff—and why?
The quick glimpse she’d gotten of the truck before she’d toppled over the craggy rocks hadn’t at all resembled Courtland’s, or any belonging to the Dogs.
Panic gripped her as she wondered if her accident was a result of her pending meeting at the lighthouse. Oh God. Please let everything be okay.
“Claire!”
She heard her name over the roar of the waves, sputtering a cough when the salty water invaded her mouth.
She stopped flopping momentarily, stilling her body to listen again, gasping for air, fig hting the numbness crawling along her legs and arms.
But there was nothing.
As she lifted her arms to begin again, stinging pain sliced through her frozen limbs, making her cry out loud.
Focus, Claire, you’re superhuman, for Christ’s sake. Swim, bitch, swi m!
Her vision began to blur, her breathing growing shallow, her brain a fuzzy clump of cotton candy—until she heard it again.
“Claire!”
Irish. Yeah, that sounded like Irish!
Oh, you moron, how could that be Irish? No one knows where you are. She was delusional. Did that happen when hypothermia set in?
Wait. As a werewolf, could she even die from hypothermia? Was it really only silver bullets and wolfsbane that could do them in? Because neither of those elements were involved in Gannon’s death. But she was a little fuzzy on the were handbook right now.
Jesus. She was a librarian involved in a murder. A librarian . How had this happened? How had her quiet life come to this?
Her head began to drum out a painful beat when she flopped to her back, hoping to float in order to catch her breath, her teeth gnashing together from chattering. The sky was covered in clouds swishing back and forth to the tune of the wind, the snow falling from them battering her face.
“Claire!”
It was muffled and watery, but she’d swear…
“Claaaire!”
That was so Irish.
Oh, it was not. What would he be doing out here in the middle of the ocean, Claire? Besides, do vampires swim? And even if they do, again, why would he be here when no one knows where you are?
Even in death, when you should be reflecting on your life, atoning for your sins, you’re hearing Irish, still dreaming up scenarios involving him as your hero. Really, Claire, what does this say about you as a strong, independent woman? And if you’re going to dream up someone calling your name, why not go for the gold and set your sights on Hugh Jackman? You do remember Wolverine, don’t you? Sure, Irish is super-duper hot, but is he Wolverine hot?
Her name roared in her ears again, only this time the voice was rig ht up against her eardrum, the lips pressed to the outer shell of it, cold.
Strong hands grabbed her
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