Rejected Mate (Feral Shifters 1)

I shift quickly, covering my nudity with my fur and pacing away from them. Although there’s a little voice inside me telling me to turn around for a peek, I keep my eyes firmly on the nighttime horizon while they undress behind me.

Kian walks up and glances my way. In the woods outside Oscura, I’d been too dead set on murdering him to really appreciate his wolf. It’s a magnificent creature. Massive, more than a head taller than me with muscles like an ox. His thick fur is the same color as his hair, a kind of dark espresso with hints of tan around his muzzle and ears.

Those beautiful brown, gold-ringed eyes are exactly the same.

Don’t get in my way, he rumbles in mind-speak.

Don’t get in my way, I retort, flicking my tail irritably.

Frost appears on the other side of him, padding up to join us on silent paws. His wolf is pure white from head to tail, and fluffy, like he should be prancing about the snow in the arctic rather than running around the desert. He’s smaller than Kian, closer to my size, and his blue eyes stand out like beacons against his fur.

Frost’s voice echoes in my head. Perhaps we could work together?

Malix bounds up beside me. Always the voice of reason, Iceman.

Malix is a stunning mix of salt-and-pepper, so that he looks like a galaxy of stars when the wind ruffles his fur. He catches my gaze with those sparkling violet eyes and his jaw hinges open, tongue lolling out in a doggy grin. I just know he’s giving me that Cheshire Cat smile.

Kian takes off without further comment, and the rest of us follow.

We race into the desert, and I’m already calculating how the hunt will go. It won’t be like back home—there are no trees to hide us, and very little brush that isn’t half-dead or too scrubby to be a hiding place. Animals out here will either be in plain sight or hiding underground, so we’ll have to rely on our noses to find them and on our speed being faster.

I put my nose to the ground and start tracking.

For several moments, we pace circles on the ground, each of us searching for any hint of prey that’s recently moved through the area. Frost finds the first scent trail, and we converge on him, racing after him as he follows his nose.

My heart hammers from the rush of adrenaline, and for the first time in a long time, I feel free. Kian barks orders in mind-speak as we spread out around a prairie dog burrow. Then we ease in, closing a circle around the visible hole. Frost starts digging, and the prairie dogs start running, and the chase is on.

I lunge after one of the five dogs, while Kian, Malix, and Frost do the same. My paws pounding in the dust, my muscles working as I close in, and the excitement of the hunt, all of it reminds me of home. I’m nostalgic for the old days. Hunting with my pack. Feeling a part of something that’s akin to family and community.

Too bad for prairie dogs, they’re slow, fat little things.

I snatch one off the ground by its neck, giving a quick, vicious squeeze of my jaw to break it. I’m not squeamish about feeding myself, but I do my best to make sure they don’t suffer fear or pain for too terribly long. The one thing that separates a wolf shifter from the beasts is our sense of empathy.

For most of us, anyway.

I’m somehow certain empathy isn’t something the feral shifters worry too much about.

The four of us converge back on our makeshift campsite with our kills, and start to eat. I’m still harboring those emotions over my old pack, and as I bite into skin and tendon, I glance around at the other wolves as they feast.

For the briefest moment, I was happy. But now, that feeling fades as I remember these wolves aren’t my family. They aren’t my pack. They aren’t even friends.

They’re my enemies.

I’d do well to remember that.

Chapter 11

Ridge slaps his cards to the table with a triumphant grin. “Royal flush.”

We’re on his back patio sitting in mismatched plastic chairs, a pile of crumpled twenties in the center of the table and a cooler between us. It’s Montana summer—lush, green, hotter than a Sunday in hell. I’ve got my bare feet propped up on the cooler, which is a few degrees cooler than the lava in the concrete. The kitchen window is open behind me, and I can hear Sable cooing at the baby and talking to Trystan as they start dinner together.

I stare at Ridge’s winning hand fanned out atop the glass tabletop, then at my own, still in my fingers. Raising an eyebrow, I wrinkle my nose at him. “You’re cheating.”

His honey-colored eyes dance with laughter as he reaches out and pulls down the top of my cards for a peek. One pair. Two tens and a bunch of other shit cards. Maybe the worst hand I’ve ever held against one of his rare winning hands.

Ridge sucks air between his teeth and chuckles, releasing my cards as he leans back in his chair.

“Bad luck, Mo,” he teases, picking up his bottle. “I’m taking you to the cleaners for all the times you lined your pockets with my money.”