Imprints (Dominant Wolves, Submissive Mates 1)

Jock and Frank locked in a knowing gaze. Carla saw the uncertainty in Jock’s eyes, but she also realized that because of her, neither man could deny their destiny or ignore the fact that their fates were now one in the same. They shared the same mate. Life could not lead them down separate paths.

Squaring his shoulders, Jock said, “You’ll accept Carla as my mate, and by acknowledging her as my partner in life, you’ll willingly accept Frank as well.”

“Or?” Grant’s bloodshot eyes were clearer than before. He seemed to search for his own sobering conclusions as he stood there in front of Frank’s pack.

The wolves were intimidating. Their body language suggested they were ready for a battle. Each wolf crouched in a defensive position. Most of their ears were back, their heads hung low.

They gave off the impression they were waiting to rip their enemy apart. Carla couldn’t help but wonder if Grant was the anticipated opponent.

“You’re either with us or you stand against us,” Frank told him. “The choice is yours.”

“No, choice was taken out of my hands when the two of you decided to imprint on the same woman.” Grant turned to Jock and with sorrowful eyes, he added, “You’re on your own. Your pack is divided. Our friends will stand with me.”

Chapter Seven

Jock didn’t join Carla and Frank for dinner. He sat on a tree stump about ten feet from her cabin whittling a stick and listening to the continual barking and howling in the distance.

A chase had commenced after Grant left them. Frank had phased and stood on the porch transmitting messages to his pack. By the guttural growls in the crowd of ten, his pack wasn’t pleased with him, but they accepted his choices, believing fate had truly played a part in Frank’s and Jock’s decisions.

After Frank’s pack departed, Jock couldn’t help but notice the quiet in his head and he was saddened by the fact. He couldn’t hear Grant’s thoughts or sense the dangers he faced. Instead, he sat there listening to the faint echo of a progressing hunt.

Frank emerged after his meal, rubbing his stomach. “You missed some mighty fine cooking.”

Jock bent his elbow and whirled the whittled stick. As the wood bounced across the ground, he heard a loud whining followed by a squelched whimper.

“Call off your pack.” Jock realized he would be indebted to Frank from that moment forward if Frank honored his request.

“I can’t do that.”

“The hell you can’t,” Jock said, his gaze meeting Carla’s when she walked outside and stood beside Frank.

“Grant has already turned on you, Jock. If he lives, he will bring this pack nothing but trouble. The danger he represents now goes far beyond taking your place as a leader.”

“How so?”

“He’s bitter. He doesn’t want to share the territory with another pack.”

“We’ve all lived here for a number of years.”

“Coexisting within WolfDen is one thing. Leading the same pack, adjoined by the commitments bound by one mate, is quite another.”

“Your pack seemingly accepted your decision to imprint.”

“I have a more mature pack. The Wyoming Wood Pack was once ruled by the hand of a ruthless leader. My father was cruel. While the distant past is only documented history recorded in the minds of those still surviving, it was a reality for some of the elders who advise our pack members today. They remember their harsh treatment and poor living conditions. My pack won’t run the risk of repeating history.”

Barking resounded. Whimpers and yelping filled the hills.

Jock flinched. He narrowed his gaze on Carla, penetrating her thoughts in an effort to understand her position. She smiled then as if she knew what was required of her.

Squeezing Frank’s arm, she said, “Grant isn’t a leader, Frank. He doesn’t have the ability to lead in Jock’s absence. Jock’s pack will return from the border and join us. They wouldn’t follow Grant from here to the outhouse much less honor him as their pack mas

ter. He isn’t an Alpha. He doesn’t have the characteristics or strength needed to lead others. He’s not a threat to us.”

Frank turned to her and studied her face, really looked at her as if he were deciding whether or not she had been coerced into making a plea on Jock’s behalf. Then, to Jock’s surprise, he patted her hand and turned. Phasing immediately, he left a pile of clothes in his wake and loped toward the tall, whispering fields.

Jock followed his shape until his shadow was no longer visible under the moonlight. “Thank you, Carla.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I don’t want Grant to die. You’re his friend and it pains you to see him like this.”