Untamed Mate (Feral Shifters 2)

Amora

Just my luckthat I found my ex-mates’ hideout during an oncoming blizzard.

I lie on my belly on a ridge about half a mile from their pack’s village while the sky spits snow and the temperature plunges. I have to hang back far enough away that they won’t scent me, especially on these heavy winds. Thank fuck I had the presence of mind to stop in Denver and pick up some cold weather clothes. But even the thick jacket and hiking boots I threw on after I shifted to human form can’t chase away the chill, and the thin layer of snow building up on my legs is making my jeans wet. I almost chose to stay in wolf form, since I’d be a little more impervious to the cold and snow that way, but it’s hard to hold binoculars with paws.

Rue’s magic necklace worked like a fucking charm. I followed the black smoke on my bike until the road ended in Rocky Mountain National Park. Then I shifted and lugged my backpack on foot, the necklace dangling from the strap in my periphery, leading me every step of the way. Despite the rugged terrain and the steep climbs it took to get me to this place, it almost felt too easy.

I guess I should be grateful for my discomfort now, as I’m slowly buried under a soft covering of snow while I wait for the right time to move.

Lifting the binoculars, I peer through the falling snow. Several hours ago, I watched all three feral shifters emerge from the topmost cabin. They walked through the village streets and entered another cabin well off the beaten path, where they’ve been for several hours now. The lights in the windows extinguished about an hour ago, so I can only assume they’ve turned in for the night.

But wolves are late night creatures, and so are shifters. Just because the lights are out doesn’t mean they’re sound asleep.

My skin prickles with anticipation, and I’m dying to say fuck it and slip down there now. Instead, I burrow into my coat, rest my chin on my hands, and wait. I’ve been patient up till now, and I made it this far—what’s another hour?

The pack village reminds me of my own pack lands. Not because they’re alike—not even a little bit. This place is like a postcard, all the homes identical, the village curving up the mountain like the land is hugging it. It reminds me of Taos in the way it has a “touristy chic” look, although I know any tourists unlucky enough to stumble into this place would be more likely to be torn apart for trespassing than offered room and board.

My pack village is mismatched and rustic. Roofs and walls made of corrugated metal or other salvaged materials. Dusty roads, pup toys everywhere, and Grady’s voice booming out in the mornings, his bald head sunburned and peeling. The only thing pretty about my village are the mountains around it.

And I miss it all like hell.

I shove my hands back through my hair and let my head hang over the rocky ground as I fight back a wave of loneliness and nostalgia. I never imagined I’d be a lone wolf, but here I am. No pack. No family. Just me. Alone. I don’t even know what’s happening back home. I don’t know if Ridge and Sable and her other mates are safe, if their child is healthy, or if any of my other favorite people are doing okay.

I’ve been firmly cut off from it all for two and a half years. That was an intentional choice, because if shit went down—as it has recently—I didn’t want to bring any of this nightmare to their doorstep.

For a long time, I was comfortable with being alone. It was just the norm. Traveling, picking up work here and there, always searching for the three men I knew I needed to find. So I never really gave much thought to how lonely I was.

Not until I found Kian in that hole in the wall bar in Oscura.

Then I became part of a group, even if it was against my better judgment. I didn’t feel alone when I was traveling and working with the feral shifters to find the antidote for the poison. I felt like part of a team, relearning how to rely on someone else. Three someone elses. And yeah, sometimes I wanted to put my fist through their skulls, but it doesn’t change the fact that I enjoyed the solidarity.

I can’t dwell on that though. They aren’t my mates—hell, they aren’t even my friends. They never can be. They’re a danger to be eliminated and nothing more.

I pick up the binoculars again and rake my gaze up the mountainside, checking out the other houses through the slowly falling snow. The village is bigger than mine, which I know means there are more shifters around who could catch me or corner me when I finally make my move. There’s a very real danger inherent in attacking the feral shifters here, even with their cabin being somewhat apart from the rest. One shifter against a village of them doesn’t make for great odds.

But I don’t know how long the men plan to stick around. From past conversations with them, I know they don’t tend to stay here with their pack, too busy on their quest to find the shadow realm. As far as I know, they could be catching some shut eye now with the plan to leave at first light.

I already gave them too many chances to escape the death I promised them.

That ends tonight.

I doze off and on for a little while, waking up every so often to shake off a layer of fresh powder and stamp the feeling back into my feet and legs. Around three in the morning, I slide my binoculars into my pack and grab my knife, plus the little vial of sleeping potion Rue gave me. These are apparently pretty easy for a well-trained witch to make, so she didn’t have to do all the bells and whistles like with the tracking spell. I pocket the vial, palm the hilt of my knife, and slip down the steep cliff side.

The snow is coming down heavier now, adding another layer of protection from any wandering eyes that might still be awake in the village. I stay on two feet and move quickly through the night, my sights set on the dark cabin where I know those assholes are sleeping. It’s eerily silent here, this far from civilization while the pack is asleep. Nothing meets my heightened sense of hearing except the whistle of the wind and the unavoidable crunch of my shoes on the gathering snow.

I make a wide circle around the cabin, carefully eyeing the windows for any hint of life. Once I’m aligned with the front door, I move slowly through the yard, keeping my weight balanced on my toes to make the least amount of noise as I walk across the snow.

I’m surprised to find the front door locked. I grew up in a village where nobody locked doors, and neighbors popping in unannounced was just a normal part of the day. Luckily, my two and a half years on the road chasing after these three asshats taught me many useful skills.

Like breaking and entering.

The lock is decent, but it still doesn’t take me long to pick it. I wait for the space of two breaths, white fog billowing from my lips, to make sure they didn’t hear the tumbler click. Then I gently open the door.

I slip inside and shut the door behind me with painstaking care. A rush of cold enters with me, but I manage to keep it at a minimum, so it doesn’t filter in and alert the sleeping shifters to my presence. It’s warm inside, and a soft amber glow is coming from a grate in the corner. A wood stove. Probably important to have one of those in this chilly part of the Rockies.

The living area is empty, but I can smell all three of them behind closed doors at the back of the cabin. Their heart rates are low, their breaths deep and even.

Fast asleep.

Perfect.

I need to move quickly, before one of them smells me and wakes up.

Picking a door at random, I enter the room and tiptoe across the dark floor on light feet. When I reach the bed, I realize it’s Kian.

Fucker.

Anger rises in me swiftly, but I tamp it down and uncork the potion vial. Rue said that only one drop would make a man sleep deeply, so I tap out a dollop onto his exposed skin. I learned my lesson the night I tried to kill Malix while he was sleeping. I barely raised my knife before he woke up as if he could feel my presence over him with some sixth sense. I’m not naïve enough to make the same mistake twice.

While I wait a couple moments for the potion to take effect, I hold my blade aloft with both hands and prepare to stab my ex-mate in the heart.

As I gaze down at him, counting down the seconds until he dies, I’m struck all over again by his almost otherworldly beauty. His dark hair needs a trim, and his face is scruffy from days without a razor. The covers have fallen low on his hips, revealing his muscular torso and the patterns of black tattoo-like shadows across his tanned skin. The scar that bisects his right eyebrow doesn’t detract from his good looks—if anything, it amplifies them. It makes him look strong, as capable of violence as he is of protecting the people he loves.

Namely, Frost and Malix.