A cracking noise behind him had John spinning around. The man he’d shot was standing now, and that noise John had heard was the man cracking his back.

“You know,” the man said, “it’ll take them hours to get that bullet out of my back.”

John didn’t understand. The man hadn’t been wearing a bulletproof vest. Or any protection but a long-sleeved T-shirt. A .22 in the back might not kill, but it should still damage. A lot.

The man took a deep breath and let it out. “But I’m not going to get mad.” John backed up as the man walked toward him. He turned to run, but he was caught by his neck. John fought hard. He wasn’t a weak person. He had bodyguards, but he knew there was only so much they could do. He still knew how to take care of himself. Yet no matter how many times or how hard he hit the man dragging him down the hallway, John couldn’t seem to hurt him.

The man took him down the stairs, down the hallway, through the kitchen and mudroom, until they were out the back door. It was late, so the woman who cleaned his house was in her little bungalow. And John knew she’d never come out to investigate. She’d learned a long time ago that was a quick way to see something she didn’t want to see. Yet, even understanding that, John still screamed for help. But he knew it wouldn’t make any difference.

Dragged past his pool and into his yard, the man finally stopped, and that was when John was suddenly falling . . . into an open grave.

John landed on his two bodyguards. They were alive but out cold.

He looked up and the grave was surrounded by a large group of men. It was dark out, so he couldn’t make out any faces, but the light coming from the house told him it was about eight or nine males.

“You clearly don’t know who I am,” John warned.

“We do not care,” the man said with a heavy Eastern European accent.

“I can give you anything you want.”

“We want one thing. Name. Who paid for package that went to Allison Whitlan?”

John swallowed. “I don’t—”

Dirt began to be shoveled onto him. All but the man with the accent, working together to cover him. To bury him alive.

“Wait! Wait!”

The men stopped.

“Give us name,” the man said. “And we go. Do not give us name, and we stay . . . ’til we are done.”

John hesitated. Going against Whitlan was a very quick way to die. But when it took him longer than thirty seconds to reply, the dirt began to fall again.

“I’ll tell you!” he screamed. “I’ll tell you!”

“Make it quick. I grow bored.”

“Bennett. Lyle Bennett. He paid for the package to be delivered to my company and then to be delivered to Allison Whitlan.”

“That is very good.”

Then the dirtbegan to rain down on John again. He screamed and begged, and after a few seconds, the dirt stopped.

“Just joke,” the man said as he and the other men laughed. “We make promise, we do not break promise. But be careful who you choose to protect. It could land you in early grave.”

CHAPTER 23

Livy sat on Vic’s kitchen table. He’d put her there himself. But, she noticed, only after he’d put down a giant beach towel first. That was probably because she was naked, and she did appreciate his need to be tidy.

Vic, also naked, sat in a chair. Livy had her legs hanging over the edge of the table, her feet rubbing against his thighs. They both had jars of honey, spooning it out like custard.

They hadn’t had sex. Not yet. Vic had just gotten her naked and gotten out the honey. But there was something about this that was way more intimate than just hitting the door and then hitting the bed.

“I heard you went head-to-head with Dee-Ann today.”

Livy licked her spoon and thought on that. “Oh . . . yeah. That was today.”

“You know, there aren’t a lot of people who forget when they have to deal with Dee-Ann Smith.”

“Well, when I was a kid, my dad brought a pit bull home for protection. He had eyes like hers, so every time I see her, I think, ‘Oh Scruffy. I miss you so.’ Then I start thinking about Scruffy and the good times we used to have until he was hit by that truck, and I eventually completely forget about Dee-Ann and whatever her issue is that particular day.”

Vic laughed and Livy stretched her legs out so she could press them against Vic’s chest.

That was when his laughter faded away and his gaze locked on her.

Vic dipped his spoon into the jar he held. Leaning forward, he poured the honey on her thigh. He popped the spoon back into the jar and placed it on the table behind Livy.

Bracing his arms on either side of her, Vic moved down and licked the inside of her thigh.

Vic’s rough tongue against her skin had Livy groaning. She set her jar of honey down on the table so she could bury her hand in his hair. Vic growled in response, his tongue moving up higher until he licked her pussy.

Livy planted her foot on the table and spread her thighs wider. She moved Vic closer by tugging on his hair. His arms wrapped around her, and he gripped her ass with his big hands, yanking her in tight.

His face was buried between her thighs and his tongue deep inside her. Her toes curled and her body shook with every sweep of that tongue. And Livy’s groans became louder until she was screaming and coming all over the man’s face.

No one had ever gotten her off so fast before, but Vic’s brutal tongue worked for her in ways some typical shifters’ simply couldn’t. And forget the full-human males. They were useless.