Table of Contents

Part 1: Bitten

Author's Note

Chapter 1 ~ Bettina

Chapter 2 ~ Bettina

Chapter 3 ~ Reeve

Chapter 4 ~ Bettina

Chapter 5 ~ Reeve

Chapter 6 ~ Bettina

About the Author

Sneak Peek at Part 2

~ Bettina ~

Getting attacked by feral dogs in the alley behind the bakery was a crappy way to start my weekend. And it only got worse when an insanely sexy man told me I’d been bitten by a werewolf. Though he was obviously insanely insane as well as drop-dead hot, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the killer body under his expensive silvery suit… or the secrets in the depths of his ice-blue eyes.

~ Reeve ~

All bets are off. The vicious rogues invading my territory infected a human woman with the werewolf virus. And as civilized as I tried to be, I wanted a taste of that smart tongue and curvy body. Already I scented the change in her: a wildness that made her a threat to my endangered pack… and at the same time made my blood sing. I’ll never let the rogues take her. She belongs to us.

HEART OF THE PACK is a paranormal shapeshifter BBW romance serial in seven parts. The stories contain adult language and graphic sexual situations. Rated M for mature and W for wild readers only.

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Copyright © 2015 by Elsa Jade

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as factual. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be scanned, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Author’s Note:

When I wrote this story, there were no established wolf packs in western Oregon. But as I was editing, I saw a news report that Wolf OR-7—known here in Oregon as the wandering wolf for his journeys through Oregon and northern California—has officially been proclaimed the leader of a new pack: the Rogue Pack! I can’t think of a more symbolic release for this book than the return of wolves to the region where the story is set. Here’s wishing OR-7 and his family a beautiful happily ever after. I hope there will always be wild places for wild creatures—in nature and in our hearts.

~ Elsa

Chapter 1 ~ Bettina

Lift with the legs. Luckily, I had plenty of counterbalance on the back end as I hefted the shining bulk of the mixing bowl. Who would’ve guessed baking cupcakes was such a workout? I thrust the heavy stainless steel into the grip of the big, old Hobart, and the floor-stand mixer and bowl clamped together with a musical bong.

That was the sound of everything good about my childhood: a day’s work done, dough rising for tomorrow’s work, and my grandmother coming out from behind the counter to give me a cinnamon-scented kiss on the head. Oma was gone—my contentment faltered like a soufflé flattening—but the Hobart and the work remained.

If only I had someone waiting for me.

“Better alone than in bad company,” I reminded myself. Or so Oma had always said, sometimes in careful English, sometimes in shouted German, depending on the schnapps. Along with Oma’s faithful mixer and sturdy build, I’d inherited the bad luck with men that ran in my matriarchal line.

I was luckier than Mom, since at least it hadn’t killed me.

The cowbell over the door clanged a counterpoint to the indie music playing through the speakers. I forced a smile onto my face before I bustled out to the counter, slowing when I saw who it was. “Hey there. What can I get you tonight? The usual or something different this time?”

The guy—he’d been in four nights this week, though I’d never seen him around town before—rubbed at his nose. “Oh hey. Yeah. The usual, please.”

I turned to the espresso machine, bypassing the fancy options for a plain ol’ cup of joe. The first time he’d come in, I’d looked at his thin, scruffy face and worn clothes and thought I’d have to send him gently on his way with a sack of free day-olds. But he’d pulled a crisp fifty out of his saggy jeans, paid for coffee and a walnut date muffin, sat in the corner staring out the window while he systematically devoured his treats, and then vanished while I was doing dishes.

I’d locked up the bakery that night with my mace in my hand. There was just something off about the guy. Rogue Pass was a fairly safe and quiet town—aside from the drug and property crimes that plagued some southern Oregon rural areas—but I didn’t take chances. Not anymore.

Nothing had happened, though, and I’d felt bad about judging him on his looks. I hated when people did that to me. They side-eyed my zaftig figure and made assumptions: lazy, weak, lacking self-esteem. At least they were wrong on two of those.

Oma always said bakers are supposed to be built like our dough: soft, round, giving.

Waiting to take a punch.

Well, she hadn’t said that part. My sarcastic brain added it.

My rough history made me still suspicious when the guy had come in the next night—same scruff, same pants sagging—and paid for his treats with a wrinkly twenty. I suspected it was the change I’d given him the night before. Maybe the money would’ve been better spent on a bar of soap and a visit to the truck-stop showers. But I understood the need for warmth and companionship, even if it was borrowed from a coffee mug and the murmur of the other late-night bakery patrons.

Some people thought having a bakery open until midnight was ridiculous—who needed caffeine and sugar so late?—but those lucky bastards could just shut the hell up. Tanzerbrot Bakery—Bettina Tanzer, owner and lead bottlewasher, that’s me—served more than socially acceptable addictions; we served people who needed a place to be.

This time, when I nudged the mug and muffin across the counter, he held out a five. His eyes—a peculiar light brown, almost yellow—skittered away from me.

Running low on funds, I guessed. “On the house tonight.” When he drew a breath, I continued, “You’re the last one here. I’d just be dumping the coffee.”

“But the muffin…”

I huffed out a laugh. “You might’ve noticed that most people go for the ones with more frosting.”

His averted gaze tracked over the last few remnants in the cases that I’d be marking down for tomorrow. “Those are pretty, especially the pink one.”

“Well, I’m closing up, so why don’t you take it with you?” I grabbed the raspberry lemon cupcake and pushed it toward him.

“Nah. I shouldn’t…”

I leaned one elbow on the counter. “That’s what I always say too.” I gave him my self-deprecating chubby-girl smile, the one that invariably got a laugh and made skinny girls buy a six-pack of sweets “for the office”.

This guy didn’t laugh, but his gaze shifted toward me, still lowered and not connecting, but I sensed his longing to reach for the pastry.

“Take it.” I pitched my voice lower, a command. Some people never got a sweet or soft moment in their lives; I could at least give them a damn cupcake.

With a harsh, indrawn breath, he dragged the treats toward him. His yellow-brown eyes widened, as if he was surprised at his own actions.

Before he could try again to pay, I straightened and went back to my cleaning. When I finished bagging up the trash, I turned to tell him I needed to lock up. But he had gone—I must have missed the cowbell ringing—and left the empty mug on the counter.

With a shake of my head, I stuck it in the dishwasher to run the next day. I’d never been able to help anybody who really needed it. At least not beyond the caffeine and sugar. Mom’s experience taught me that.

I put up the wooden chairs and manhandled the wingbacks as I swept, ran down the last of the closing duties, and did one more walk-through to power down.

As the melancholy voice of the guitarist clicked off, silence settled thicker than the shadows cast by the streetlamp through the plate-glass windows. At this northern latitude, night in November came early and stayed late, but the town of Rogue Pass was at a low enough elevation that the snow never stuck around long. Instead, a misting rain turned the darkness outside into a tarnished-silver veil against the rest of the world. Peaceful almost.

And hella lonely.

Ugh. The homeless guy’s desperation—and maybe the mopey songs—had obviously gotten to me. I checked the temperature near the bowls of rising dough one last time, hung up my apron and smoothed down my denim skirt, grabbed all three trash bags in one hand, and headed for the back door to the alley.

The bakery was the only business on this side street open so late, but the raucous country tunes coming from Swayze’s drifted from three streets over. The coffee crowd might be done, but the bar crowd was hopping. I hummed along as I elbowed up the lid of the dumpster and heaved the trash bags into the old-coffee-scented depths. I should take a hose to that. Not tonight though. I gave myself one day a week off—tomorrow was my weekend—and no matter how empty the hours stretched since Oma had died, damn if I was going to start my weekend hosing a dumpster.

I let the lid fall with a clang and stepped back.

A pair of glowing eyes flashed at me from the other side of the alley, and my heartbeat skipped hard.

“Dammit, Misha.” The breath exploded out of my chest.

The calico cat didn’t even blink, just watched me fixedly, one front paw still raised as if caught mid-stride. I suspected Misha had been a pet. There’d never been any kittens, so she must be spayed, but Misha refused to be caught, in any way. She rejected food—human or cat—and a direct stare would send her running. Kind of like the homeless guy, actually. Although he probably wasn’t as good at killing rodents.

“Back to work, girl,” I said. “I got a smutty novel waiting in my bed.”

Abruptly, Misha’s particolored fur fluffed out in all directions, making her twice as big as before. She turned tail and fled.

I pursed my lips. “I need more people to jump like that when I say so.”

Behind me, an answering growl tore through the alley.

Chapter 2 ~ Bettina

I whirled and slung my backpack off my shoulder in one move, reaching for the mace canister inside. More than a few neighborhood cats went missing to coyotes every winter, but no way was my mouser going to be one of them.

I strode from behind the dumpster, arms wide to make myself bigger—which was easy enough. I’d just scare it off, quick like, and then—

I cleared the edge of the dumpster and did the same mime-halt as Misha.

“Well, hell,” I whispered, surprise cutting my intended threatening shout to one-fifth volume.

There wasn’t one, there were three. And these weren’t coyotes. Too big. Too broad through the muzzle and heavily maned. The one in the middle was a beautiful honey color with pure white highlights, the flanking two were gray.

Wolves? In town? I’d never, ever heard of such a thing. Wolves were eradicated in Oregon before Oma’s time and had only made a slight recovery in the last decade. But that was up north, not here in town.

My arms were still spread wide, as if I intended to embrace them, and a thrill shot down my spine, part fear, part awe. Such powerful beauty. I wanted to grab hold of it, fold it into myself, make it part of me. The thrill spread outward through my limbs with an almost painful tingle, like my nerve endings had been asleep this whole time and were finally coming awake.

The strange fantasy slowed me when they charged.

That and their lightning speed. They went from Misha-stillness to halfway down the alley toward me before I could even gasp.

I swung the spray canister in front of me, but my arm seemed to be moving through cream cheese frosting—slow and heavy. The shocked breath of cold air whistling in past my parted teeth wasn’t anywhere near enough to force out a scream.

They were on me in a heartbeat—and my heart was beating so fast I thought it might burst out of my chest.

The golden wolf hit first, and I flew backward, hard. I landed on my ass, which took the worst of the blow. My skater skirt flipped up as I kept tumbling, and my skull thumped against the pavement. The other two wolves were a split second behind, blocking me when I tried to roll toward the shelter of the dumpster.

Their eyes blazed like open flame, and their teeth—so close, so terrifyingly close—were daggers.

But I was no skinny latte chick. I was full body with extra whip.

I couldn’t douse them with the mace. I’d get myself too and then be blind and gagging in addition to being attacked by wild animals. But I lashed out with my backpack. The laptop inside gave it extra weight and blunt edges. I slammed the head of the smaller gray wolf, and it yelped, falling back on its haunches. I kicked my sturdy Mary Janes at the second gray wolf, and it too dodged backward.

But the blond one closed its massive jaws around my forearm, fangs slashing through the thin fabric of my waterproof trench coat.

This time, I found the breath to scream.

It hurt, bad, like my arm was caught in the Hobart at top speed. With no other choice, I brought the spray canister to the beast’s mouth and unleashed a torrent down its throat.

Its yowl was worse than mine. Just a whiff of the mace on its agonized wail made my eyes tear up. I thrashed, but the wolf was already backing away, shaking its giant head.

I lifted the canister again, unsure if there was any left, but the trio turned and ran.

I was gasping, huge breaths that sucked the lingering spray into my lungs, which left me choking and crying. Forcing myself to stop sobbing—I’d had practice at that, after all—I crawled away from the dumpster, following Misha’s path. My wet skirt clumped around my over-the-knee socks, as if trying to hold me back.

I couldn’t… I didn’t… What the fuck? Wolf attacks just didn’t happen. Sure, coyotes took a few cats, and maybe some cows got eaten by large predators, and the occasional hiker or meth cook went missing in the mountains, but wolves did not attack bakers.

Not outside of Old World fairy tales, anyway.

At the back door of the shop, I pulled myself upright, but as I reached for the handle, I realized I didn’t have the key. Had I dropped it in the fight? I couldn’t even remember. But I didn’t want to go fumbling around in the dark looking for the damn thing. What if they came back?

Fear spiked through every nerve, and I sagged against the door. Never mind the awe I’d felt earlier. That was before its teeth sank into my flesh.

I clamped my arm to the dip of my waist and followed the twang of “Praying for Daylight” to Swayze’s.

My knees were still shaky, but I wasn’t swaying any worse than most of the midnight clientele, and the old neon lights were bleary enough that my wet clothes didn’t show. I angled through the press of bodies, cringing when someone jostled my arm, until I made it to the bar.

On the other side of the oak plank, Carmen took one look at me and her dark eyes widened. She spoke to her fellow bartender then met me at the end of the bar and pulled me into the stockroom.

“Did that cabrón come back? Did he—?”

“No.” My knees finally gave out, and I collapsed onto one of the crates. “It wasn’t Tommy. I was dumping trash in the alley, and I saw…”

The word stuck in my throat. Wolves? Really? I’d hit my head pretty hard. “Coyotes, or feral dogs, or something,” I amended. “One bit me.” I held out my arm to show her the bloody streaks.

“Oh my god.” Carmen leaned down to look, one hand over her candy-apple mouth. “We need to call the county,” she mumbled, “and then a hospital up in Portland. What if it had rabies? You’ll have to get shots in the stomach.”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t do that anymore.” I pushed to my feet again, my nerves jumping too much to sit still. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Carmen followed me. In the bleach-scented bathroom, she opened the supply cabinet and pulled out a first-aid kit. “Here. Use this soap.”

Since my sleeve was shredded, I stuck my arm into the sink. I worked up a huge lather and rinsed, then washed again until the water ran clear. We both peered at the wound.

“I thought it’d be worse,” Carmen said.

“Me too.” The pain had been so bad, I was sure muscle and nerves had been slashed along with my coat. But aside from the two parallel score marks—from the incisors, I guessed—the rest was just bruising.

As if the thing hadn’t wanted to kill me. Merely bite.

“The clinic won’t be open until eight tomorrow.” Carmen laid a taupe-colored bandage over the two slashes. “But I’m sure Elliott would see you if you called him.”

“Then he’d want free butter cookies for life.”

“True,” Carmen said. “But aren’t butter cookies worth your life?”

“You’ve tasted them. What do you think?”

“Oh, you know I love everything about you, mija.” Carmen wrapped a gentle arm around my shoulder and kissed my temple. I leaned into her softness with a shuddering sigh.

We’d had a thing for a semester in college when it seemed like since we were already sharing the long commute to Southern Oregon University, we might as well share a bed too. It made sense at the time, but then, we were nineteen so sense probably didn’t have a lot to do with it. The next semester, our schedules changed, but the friendship remained.

Carmen pulled her phone out of her apron pocket and hit speed dial. “Hey, Frank… No, no fights yet. But Tini got bit by a dog tonight… Nope, probably a stray.” The deputy’s baritone rumbled through the phone, and though I couldn’t quite distinguish his words, the tone was frazzled. “I hadn’t heard,” Carmen said. “That sucks. Well, if you get a sec, ask around about anybody having trouble with dogs.”

When she hung up, Carmen shook her head, making her black braids dance. “Our only deputy is at a crime scene on the other side of the pass. Big bloody mess, he said, but no bodies. Weird. Has no idea when he’ll be able to get over here.”

I rested in Carmen’s embrace for another moment then pulled away. “At least I’m not a big bloody mess anymore, so thanks for that.”

“Let me get someone to cover for me, and we’ll drive over to the hospital in Medford right now.”

Closing my hand over her phone, I shook my head. “It’s late. Or early, whatever. I’ll call Eli first thing in the morning and see what he says. Now, let’s go pour me a glass of whatever’s on tap, and I’ll just forget this whole night ever happened.”

After a last, searching look from Carmen which I returned with a lifted eyebrow, I followed my friend out to the bar. I took a stool at the less busy end, away from the lottery machines and the jukebox. A wooden beam studded with playing cards held up the roof and cut some of the glare from the neon behind the bar. I settled gingerly onto the seat, wrinkling my nose at the damp squelch of my skirt.

Carmen slid a foamy pilsner in front of me and was promptly bellowed back to the other end of the bar. Which suited me well enough. My head ached, more than my arm, probably from when I’d smacked it on the pavement. Even the faded neon made me squint, and the discordance from the lottery games grated in my ears. I hadn’t hit my head hard enough for a concussion, had I? I’d never lost consciousness. Nope, I remembered every ghastly moment.

Under the cold denim, my skin felt a bit warm and tight, like when I knew I was getting too much sun on my German milkmaid skin. Sunburn wasn’t an issue in Oregon in winter, though. I touched the bandage where the twin wounds throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

If it’d been a rattlesnake that bit me, I could almost imagine a hot poison circling through my veins. But coyotes or dogs—or whatever—weren’t venomous. I clutched the beer glass, wondering if maybe I should drive to the hospital tonight. They probably still had me on file from the last time I’d been in with my bruises I didn’t want to talk about.

I would go. No reason to take chances, but I’d go in the morning when I wasn’t so shaken. I took a long draught of the beer and set it down with a decisive clink.

Something about the way the light hit the amber liquid in the glass made me think of the homeless guy earlier. His apprehensive brown eyes had been almost as pale.

As pale as the eyes on the smaller gray wolf.

Chapter 3 ~ Reeve

From my position across from the front door, I commanded a good view of the bar. More importantly, the night air carried every odor right to my nose.

And now it brought me the scent of the ones I hunted.

The sweet tang of blood and the bitterness of the virus all but overwhelmed the softer scents of rain, spicy cinnamon, and…woman?

Lush, intoxicating woman.

My every muscle had tensed, expecting a dozen large and violent males. But instead, it was one wet female with curves in all the right places. My jaw slackened, letting the flavor of the spice drift over my tongue. Between one heartbeat and the next, my whole body flushed with a fierce hunger.

Starving actually, and not just for dessert.

The woman went to the bar and spoke to the bartender, and the two disappeared into a back room.

I ran a hand down my face, trying to wipe away the distracting scent of her. If Lysander and his pack came through that door, they could’ve ripped me apart right then, I was so off my game. Which never happened to me.

The bastards had bitten a human woman.

A cold deeper than the winter weather iced my bones. They’d bitten her, and there was nothing I could do. Chances were, she’d be dead by morning. And I’d be no closer to stopping Lysander and his pack. They’d continue with their merry mayhem in our territory, drawing attention to the bloody X-marks-the-spots they were leaving in their wake.

If she didn’t die, she was potentially even more dangerous to us than Lysander and all his wolves.

I pulled my phone from the back pocket of my slacks and sent off a quick text: Change of plans. Will check in later.

The guys would bitch about my terse message—that’s what came of being an alpha to a pack of alphas—but I couldn’t ignore this threat.

I kept an eye on the stockroom, noted when the women went to the bathroom together, and paced while I waited for my target to reappear. I hadn’t had time to change clothes since coming over the pass, and the silver wool of my suit trousers chafed in a way I thought I’d long since taught myself to ignore. My pack needed me to be the careful, controlled CEO of Rogue Mountain Industries, keeping us secret and safe in the unsuspecting human world.

But Lysander’s pack and this unlucky female were blowing my cool all to hell.

The hair on the back of my neck—a little longer than standard CEO length, thanks to my wolf—riffled as if an unseen hand had passed over me. Since I’d stopped at the bar with the intent to ask some nosy questions, I’d left my suit jacket in the car so I wouldn’t stick out too much, and I’d rolled up the sleeves of my white dress shirt. Even the hair on my arms prickled, and I knew she was coming. I turned to face the back corridor, rocking up onto the toes of my leather motorcycle boots.

Yeah, careful, controlled, but always ready to kick some ass.

The woman and her friend reappeared, and she made her way to the end of the bar where she settled in with a beer, as if nothing at all had happened to her. So, a tough chick. Not that it would save her.

Still, respect twined with curiosity as I stared her down, trying to see what made her special. Why her? Why would Lysander bite her?

She’d taken off her jacket and stuffed it in her pack, which was tucked against the base of the bar. She wasn’t a little girl, but she looked vulnerable, huddled on her seat, the heels of her chunky shoes hooked on the lower rung of the stool. Mud streaked the side of her skirt over her thigh, and her blousy hippie floral shirt had a rip in the elbow, exposing a glimpse of creamy skin.

My fists tightened, the hard muscles in my forearms straining the civilized confines of my dress shirt. Lysander had all but savaged her, the bastard.

I didn’t want to care, didn’t want to expose my males to the sweetly perfumed chaos of an unbonded female. And bonding would only make it worse. I knew the danger better than any of them, the devastation when the bond was lost. To avoid that fatal end, I’d made a protected place for them, where we could be alone together. I guarded them, gave them everything I had in me. And that had always been enough.

But now the wolf inside me wanted another taste of cinnamon.

Before the thought faded, I found myself standing at her bared elbow. I hadn’t intended to make contact, not yet, not until I’d weighed the potential benefits against the risks embodied in her body. And there were a lot of risks, all her curves being thrown at me when I was least ready for them. But the wolf had to smell her.

I couldn’t stop a deep, huffing breath. The stink of antiseptic and fading adrenaline made my nose itch, and the wolf sneezed.

She glanced up at me, eyes narrowed. “Gesundheit.” Her voice was low and steady with the echo of the Black Forest in the way she said the word. The wolf liked the sound, wanted to rub on her until she purred in that low, throaty way.

Damn the wolf anyhow. It never cared about consequences. It had been pushing me harder and harder lately, testing and challenging. Restless. But I couldn’t deal with that now. I had to keep the pack together; I had to stop Lysander; and now I had to do something with this poor, doomed female.

“Thanks,” I said. Since the wolf had already broken the ice, I leaned my shoulder against the column between her and the rest of the bar. I crossed my arms over my chest to block the neon making her squint. “Hopefully not a winter cold coming on.”

When I spoke, she tilted her head, her dark eyes widening. That was one thing no amount of civilized veneer could ever disguise: our voices. Maybe it came from howling at the moon, but the wildness was always poised on our tongues, just a breath away.

Over the centuries, some people—the smart ones—heard us and ran. Some—usually the soon-to-be dead ones—froze in place. And some very few sang back.

When she shifted again, tangles of her chestnut-brown hair flirted over her shoulder. Strands still touched with summer sun framed her heart-shaped face, and a smattering of freckles brightened her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. “Have a shot of Jägermeister. It’s medicinal. Heck, let’s both have one.”

I lifted my eyebrows, surprised and even more surprised that she’d surprised me, when she flagged down the bartender she’d been with earlier.

“Mija,” she called. “Two shots of Jäger, por favor.” When the woman frowned, she clicked her tongue. “A bad night demands bad booze.”

“And bad behavior, apparently,” the bartender said under her breath. The noise level in the bar was too loud for my companion to hear, but my perked ears caught the grumble. I didn’t need any special perception to catch the glower the bartender aimed at me. “Haven’t seen you around here. What’s your name?”

“Reeve,” I said pleasantly. I had no reason to lie. It wasn’t like she’d ever be able to find me. “Just passing through and needed a nightcap.”

“The Jäger,” my companion said pointedly.

Her friend looked a little hurt, but I knew who must really be hurting. Even the smallest canids were predators, and their jaws were engineered accordingly. Wolves just had the biggest bite. And my kind of wolf was the worst of all.

When the shots arrived—along with another meaningful glare from the bartender—I clicked my glass to my victim’s. “Cheers.”

We both swallowed it down.

I grimaced. “You’re right. Bad booze. Haven’t done that since high school.”

Her eyes—a darker brown than her hair, but still touched with a glimmer of the same gold, like one of the big, malty Winterbock beers on tap here—were glassy when she quirked a smile at me. “Bad booze for bad boys.”

“Since high school,” I emphasized. “Long time ago.”

Damn, already she was getting in my head, and I resented it. I never thought about those days back when I’d been desperate to trigger the change. If only I’d known the death coming my way, I wouldn’t have been so impatient to be on my own.

“Well,” she said, “your cold has no chance now.”

If only the glow of the herbal liqueur could burn out the werewolf virus in her. So many if onlys.

“So, Reeve. Are you a singer? You sound like someone who should sing.”

“Sometimes.” I touched her ripped sleeve. A look at the bite would tell me how far the transformation had gone. “Are you a mud wrestler?”

“Apparently.” She grimaced down at the soiled fabric. The crack of a cue ball breaking the rack over at the pool table made her flinch, which twitched her sleeve out of my grasp. Her senses were heightened, on alert, instinctively knowing she was still under attack, but not knowing how.

I’d seen the bandage covering the wound, but it didn’t matter. I sensed the virus was spreading already, multiplying in her blood, invading every cell, altering her forever. No choice. No cure. No chance at all.

My stomach burned, and I hated the weakness she represented, just sitting there. The part of me that masqueraded as human longed to walk out, like I’d learned to walk away from all bad deals and hopeless causes. Pack came first.

And I hated myself more, because I knew I couldn’t save her. I’d only be able to stand and watch, helpless while the virus took her. Something so small and yet impossible to fight. All I could do was be with her.

If she survived. But females rarely did. I choked down the wolf’s furious howl, a challenge to fate.

“What’s your name?” At least I’d be able to tell her friend where to retrieve the body. “Since you know mine.”

“Bettina,” she said. “I own the bakery down the street.” She waved one hand somewhat haphazardly behind her, almost smacking a passerby.

I caught her hand. She had calluses that matched my own, but the center of her palm was soft. And fever hot.

I smoothed my thumb over the pulse point of her wrist. She was feeling it, I knew. “Easy there.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, staring down at our joined hands. “I guess I shouldn’t have had that second drink.”

“Bad night, you said,” I reminded her. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Couldn’t blame her. Against my better judgment, I was intrigued by the fusion of tough and fragile, like the wildflowers that pushed up through the mountain snows at the first touch of the spring sun.

I wondered what sort of touch would make her bloom.

Her wayward gesture had loosened the tie that cinched up the scoop neck of her peasant blouse. Even undone all the way, the neckline wouldn’t have been indecent. She had the bust to hold it all up. But she had tightened the lace more than was usual for a pretty girl. The wider gap revealed the upper curves of her breasts, the pale skin lightly dusted with freckles.

My cock stirred, and I caught my breath at the inappropriate reaction. The inhalation brought the scent of her deep into my lungs: sweetness and spice and something more, something darker and wild, something just her.

I was starting to understand why a male might think she was special.

Distracted by the shadow that arrowed between her breasts toward deeper treasures, I almost missed the blue ink staining her skin higher up. On the upper curve of her left breast, half hidden by her blouse, was a tattoo. Only two hollow points—like the tips of horns—and a sprinkling of outlined stars were visible. A crescent moon and stars, I guessed. Why get a tattoo in such a prominent place then disguise it?

Maybe I’d get a chance to find out.

The silence had thickened between us, heavy with the scent of liqueur and her fevered skin. She tugged at her hand, still in mine. I held her for a moment, always reluctant to let my prey escape, before releasing her.

“I need to go,” she mumbled.

The virus was telling her to run, to get away, get somewhere quiet and alone while she was helpless. I knew she wasn’t thinking right when she rose, leaving her backpack and not signaling her friend or paying for her drinks, and headed for the door. I threw some money on the bar, grabbed her pack, and started after her, eyes focused on the sway of her hips in the flouncy skirt, ears tuned for shouts from behind.

But no one was watching out for her.

No one except me.

Chapter 4 ~ Bettina

God, I was so hot. I was burning up. I tugged at the neckline of my shirt, opening the fabric to the misting rain. The coolness trickled down between my breasts toward my navel.

Better, a little better, but I needed…

“Bettina.”

I turned and saw the guy from the bar. “Reeve?”

“Yeah.” He half turned to show me my pack slung over his shoulder. “You forgot something.”

He could make me forget my vow not to fall for another bad boy. Everything about him was tall, dark, and…well, not handsome. That was too easy. He was thrilling: tall, probably six-four or five, and solidly built in that perfect triangle of wide shoulders and narrow hips. Oh, the rich fabric of his dress shirt and trousers might make him seem like just another corporate corner office type slumming it off the I-5 corridor, but from his just-a-little-too-long shaggy hair to his way-too-lug-soled boots, I smelled trouble.

But instead of alarm bells tolling “no, no, no” in my head, his voice saying my name in that rough velvet timbre was like a choir of naughty angels singing “yes, yes, yes!”

My hand was still on my shirt, and I found myself pulling it wider yet, exposing my flushed skin to his gaze. I moaned when his gaze brightened. He had blue eyes, so light they were almost icy, with darker shadows underneath, like a dangerous mountain road. But that frosty blue was only making me hotter.

“Something’s wrong with me,” I whispered.

“I know, liebchen.”

The heat flashed to rage. “Don’t,” I growled. “I am not your sweetheart.”

He held up both hands, long fingers spread open. “Fair enough. That exhausts my German anyway.”

I prowled around him in a tight circle, as tight as the choking sensation in my throat. My heels clacked with satisfying menace on the sidewalk. I’d been so cautious for so long, being friendly at work but not too friendly, wary of giving the impression I was desperate enough to let just anyone into my life again. But the attack in the alley had reminded me I could do everything right and still get hurt.

As if he was reading my mind, he said, “You shouldn’t be alone.”

I paused at his shoulder, eyeing him. “What makes you think I’m alone?”

He faced straight ahead, but his sidelong glance was fixed on me, watchful. “Because you’re here with me.”

The stark edge to his enthralling voice was like a thorn under a velvety rose petal. The truth pierced me to the quick.

He pivoted slowly on his heel to face me. The rain had turned his white shirt translucent, emphasizing the cut of muscle across his shoulders, and silver droplets shimmered in his unruly black hair. “You can’t escape what you’re feeling,” he said. “The craving, like a beast inside you trying to gnaw its way out. I’ve felt it myself, and I know it. Intimately.”

The way he said intimately—in that unearthly voice, almost a growl—made me shiver. Not with fear, but with wanting. A beast, yes. Something strong and sure, that didn’t look over its shoulder or care what people thought.

I touched my temple, my head whirling. “I need…” The beast.

“I’m here,” he said. When I didn’t respond, he closed the short distance between us, clamping his large hands on my upper arms. “Whatever you need, I’m here.” He captured my gaze, his icy eyes a contradiction of his seductive voice.

The declaration made my heart race with excitement, but I lifted my chin in challenge. “And what the hell do you think I need from you?”

He looked down at me. His dark eyelashes glittered with the rain that seemed to have frozen in his icy stare. “This.”

He hauled me up to my tiptoes with a long, muscled arm and brought his full mouth down hard on mine, angling me against his big body.

His lips slanted over mine, hot and so fierce, it should have been frightening. But all I could do was sway against him, my pulse skyrocketing as his arms tightened possessively around me, his fingers digging into my ass. When I parted my lips to tell him off—because I’m not one to give it all up on the first date—his tongue tangled with mine, and his breath, heated with liqueur, rushed into me, and all I wanted was to kiss him back.

I grabbed handfuls of his wet shirt and pulled myself higher, practically climbing him, my half-bared breasts smashed against his chest, my pussy clenching. The wound in my arm twinged at the strain, but I didn’t give a rip, not when the rest of me was singing—no, not singing, howling with need.

He stumbled back a step, and for a mortifying moment, I thought he couldn’t hold my weight. So much for those broad shoulders. But then shadows surrounded us as he backed us into the alley, only brick and pavement and night rain to witness my recklessness.

Well, those and him.

“What are we doing?” I gasped the question against his mouth. “This is crazy.”

“And we can’t stop it. We can only ride it out.” He groaned when I slid my hand down his body, reaching for the heavy bulge behind the fly of his trousers. “Bettina.”

He lifted me in his arms and spun me toward the wall, pinning me to the bricks with his weight.

The alley. The near-attack. Like an echo of earlier in the night. But this time, I wanted it.

I wrapped one leg behind his tight butt, thrilling in his strength as he hefted me higher. He angled his hips between my thighs, his wide-legged stance shoving my skirt up to my waist.

The rain on my bared skin was delicious. I tilted my head back to let the water flow down my neck, over my breasts.

I was already wet, so wet, down below.

Reeve’s hot breath against my throat made me moan again, and he bit. Not too hard. Just hard enough that my pussy tightened in greedy anticipation. How did he know my desires so well after such a short amount of time? Was I that obvious?

I writhed against his groin, feeling the swell of his cock through his trousers. God, if he was that big already behind the tailored fit of the silver wool, he would fill me in ways I wasn’t sure I could handle. And yet despite that moment of misgiving, a needy whine escaped my lips.

The sound brought his head up, and his icy eyes speared me, as inescapable as his big body.

He put a hand under my chin, levering my face up. “This is what you need.” His rough-velvet voice cracked between question and command. “And want.”

“Yes,” I moaned. “I want this. I want you, inside me. Fuck me now, Reeve.”

His hard mouth crashed down on mine, demanding. And I demanded back, plunging my tongue past his teeth, drinking his anguished gasp.

I fumbled with his belt and the button of his trousers, desperate to touch him. He hissed a warning as I wrestled the zipper down, but I was careful—more or less—and his engorged cock sprang over the waistband of his boxer briefs, thrusting into my hand as if it had been lying in wait just for me.

I stroked him once, and he plunged into my fist. He was big, filling my palm and overflowing my fingers with his hot, silken steel.

“Bettina,” he rasped. His gorgeous voice sounded almost broken. Because of me. No man had ever wanted me so much, and knowing it spurred my wildness higher.

With one brutal yank, he ripped my pink panties from my body, pinching my thighs. He grabbed my hands in his big fist and pinned them over my head against the brick. As if the grind of mortar against my knuckles was sanding away my inhibitions, every nerve seemed to come alive at the crush of his hips when he centered himself at my core.

As if some secret part of me knew this was what I’d been missing all along.

The heavy, thick head of his penis nudged into my crease, and I let out a keening cry. I anchored my other leg behind him, suspended by his one hand around my wrists, my ankles locked behind his ass. His cock speared me.

His lips dragged across my hair, and he gasped a curse in my ear. “God, you’re so tight. Just let me—”

I had no idea what he might be waiting for, but something in me knew I didn’t have time for it. I slammed my hips into his, and he cursed again as he steadied us both on the wall.

“Don’t drop me,” I moaned even as I ground myself into him.

“I can hold you all night.”

Nothing had ever sounded better.

He pounded me against the bricks like I was a dirty rug, and I reveled in the force. This was reckless, dangerous…and exactly right, the attack all but forgotten in the fierce pleasure surging up from my core. All night. But my pussy tightened greedily, wanting all night right now. As the inner tremors spiraled outward, I tilted my head back. The tender spot on the back of my skull bumped the brick, and I thought I saw stars. Or maybe that was just the slick friction of his body striking against mine, lighting sparks that flew in all directions, setting fire to every nerve ending, and I was going to—

I came in a violent rush, my thighs crushing him to me, a pressure on my clit that made me spasm again.

Every muscle in me trembled. Meanwhile, he was doing all the work, but he was rock hard, never wavering. He thrust up into my pussy, once, twice, and then he burst inside me. The hot gush was such a shocking contrast to the chill of rain that another orgasm rolled through me, leaving my senses in disarray, uncertain even which way was up.

Reeve touched his forehead to mine, disheveled strands of his dark hair tickling my cheekbones while his breath heaved in and out of him, warming the space between our bodies. And still he held me without a tremor of weakening. I was wrong to have doubted the strength in those shoulders.

The pounding seemed to have shaken some of the madness out of me, because now I knew I should feel at least a little ashamed at being pinned to an alley wall by a guy I’d met ten minutes ago. Ashamed with a hefty dash of unease. And yet all I felt was good.

Who was he? What was wrong with me that I felt so fearless? And how had he known what was going on inside me?

But my body didn’t care what I should be feeling. I’d never felt this at ease in my own skin, definitely not when I was half naked, and definitely-definitely not half naked in public, and definitely-definitely-definitely not with anyone else around.

But if there was something wrong with me, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be put right again.

Despite his rock-hard bod, he had to be getting tired. I wriggled my fingers, my wrists still clenched in his fist over my head, then cleared my throat.

He sucked in a breath. “Bettina—”

A hint of regret struck a bitter note in his beautiful voice. Which I so didn’t want to hear. “Before you say anything else, you should probably get your dick out of me,” I told him. “Less awkward, don’t you think?”

He let out the breath on a short laugh. “I didn’t know there was etiquette, but sure.” He bent his knees, lowering me slowly until just the toes of my Mary Janes touched the pavement.

I closed my eyes at the fullness of his cock still inside me. As stupid as it was to wish for, I didn’t want to let him go, and my pussy tightened around him, igniting hidden nerve endings again. But I kept my voice even when I replied, “Really, you don’t do this all the time? Because you’re great at it.”

His erection pulsed once, as if he was chuffed by the compliment. Sure, as if a guy like him had never heard it before.

I wondered if he sensed my skepticism when he said, “I usually keep my distance from…women. But then, I’ve never met anyone like you.” He set me on my feet with a kiss that distracted me while he pulled away and smoothed down my skirt. His hands lingered on my hips for a moment, his fingers flexing to drag me just a smidgen closer, the same way people pulled my cupcakes and coffee toward themselves with hungry eyes.

Well, I refused to react to the compliment. If that’s what it even was. Maybe he just meant he’d never met such an easy lay.

Dammit, this insta-doubt was another reason not to do one-night stands.

Yeah, like it was so much better to let the doubt build up over months.

I sidled away from him, my hands nervously following the path his had taken, over my full hips and down my thighs, over the curves where his touch had been. I had a strong, capable body, but even after all these years and a lot of “you go, girl” inspirational quotes on my social media sites, I’d never quite learned to love it. Not as he’d done—vigorously and without hesitation.

I glanced around surreptitiously for my undies—size D damn, they weren’t anywhere to be seen—before peeking over at him. He was stuffing his still semi-hard cock back behind his fly—hey, was that a peek of pink in his pocket?

If I had to make a terrible mistake, he might actually be worth it.

But I wasn’t about to go back to making stupid decisions just because sometimes the bakery seemed empty to me even when it was full of customers.

“Better alone,” I murmured to myself.

He glanced up sharply. The sound of the zipper was like a hiss of mocking laughter. “Our kind are never better off alone.”

I straightened abruptly. No way could he have heard me. I always kept my self-pitying remarks sotto voce. But his impossibly keen hearing wasn’t what stopped me in my tracks. “‘Our kind’?” What the hell did he mean by that?

We weren’t anything alike. He was big and strong, and I…well, I was those things too, but he had the confidence to back it up. I had the back-it-up part, but not in the same way, at all.

He squared off to my confrontational stance. The rain had darkened his elegant silver trousers to black and slicked his dark hair to his chiseled cheekbones. The guy who’d seemed like just a top-floor exec now looked like someone Oma would warn me about.

“What I am,” he said softly, lowering his head so his mesmerizing voice thrummed off the bricks, “and what you are becoming.”

“Becoming?” I took a step back. His icy eyes glinted at me, and for the first time, I realized how vulnerable I was, with the night wind feeling up my naked pussy and his ejaculate still wet where my thighs rubbed together. “I don’t understand. What do you—?”

“I’m a werewolf. And if you live through the transformation, you’ll be one too.”

Chapter 5 ~ Reeve

I probably should have led up to that a little smoother. But the perfume of her was still wafting up from my crotch, haywiring my brain and throwing me for a loop.

Or a loup-garou.

We hadn’t known each other long enough for her to appreciate a shapeshifter sense of humor, so I only repeated, “You’re becoming a werewolf.”

When I’d said werewolf the first time, her whiskey-brown eyes had flared wide under the disbelieving arch of her brows. Now the delicate wings dropped into a scowl.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t know why you’re doing this—”

“I didn’t do anything. You were bitten by a werewolf tonight, and there’s no stopping the change.” My gut twisted at the fear—fear of me—that flattened the sweet bow of her mouth when she should be afraid for herself. But it didn’t matter what she thought of me; I had to make her believe what was coming.

If I could have stopped it, I would have. Not just for her sake, but for mine. So what if it makes me a selfish prick, I couldn’t go through this. She might be everything a pack could need or want. And she could just as easily destroy me, destroy us all, when I’d done everything in my power to never let that happen again.

But it was too late, and there was no point in either of us dreaming of what couldn’t be.

“You don’t believe me,” I said. “Even after you let me take you up against that wall.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I knew you were crazy.” She took another step back, wrapping her trembling arms around herself. Was she fending off the creeping chill of death? Or did she feel the pulse of her senses coming alive in ways she’d never known?

“You were bitten, weren’t you?” I pressed. I couldn’t let her run away, even though all her muscles were tensed to flee.

Not that she’d get far, not from the virus. And not from me.

Her eyes were narrowed, the fear and fury of a cornered animal. The wolf was rising in her, no doubt. Whether it would be strong enough to survive was another question.

“How did you know I was bitten?” she demanded. “Were those your dogs?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and stared down at her. “Those weren’t dogs, Bets,” I said. Maybe I was being overly familiar with the nickname, but she was taking unreasonable risks and there was no betting against the virus. “You know that and I know that, so stop pretending.” She stiffened at my sharp tone, but I couldn’t afford to let her fool herself. “And they weren’t from my pack. My pack isn’t stupid. I’ve always made sure we kept to ourselves.” Until now, of course.

“Pack…” There was a questioning tone in her voice. And something else, something almost yearning. But then she held up one hand. “You know what? Never mind. Don’t say anything else. This isn’t a one-night stand. It’s a one-hour stand. And I’m pretty sure the midnight bell is tolling, so adios.”

She twisted on her heel to strut away, her palm still flattened toward me in a talk-to-the-hand gesture.

That sass had probably worked well in the past. But not tonight.

In one long stride, I was on her. I wrapped my fingers around her wrist and yanked her back. I spun her as she stumbled toward me, so that her arm was twisted behind her. She was pressed tight to my chest, her other arm—the bandaged one—pinned in the crook of my elbow. Her full breasts smashed up against the wet linen of my shirt, heaving an outraged breath.

“Let me go!” She strained away. Maybe she was used to throwing her weight around, but I controlled her easily with just one hand.

“There’s no prince coming for you.” I stroked my free hand down the tumbled waves of her hair. The rain had darkened the chestnut to auburn. The silky strands tried to loop around my fingers, to bind me to her. “You’re Little Red Riding Hood and there’s no getting away from this big, bad wolf.”

She stilled, attention fixed on me, though I felt the fine tremors in her muscles; she hadn’t given up yet, even against my inhuman strength. The fathomless pupils of her eyes were blown wide, swallowing all the color, leaving only darkness.

I knew my wolf had risen enough that its silver gaze would have eclipsed all the blue in my irises, staring her down, impossible to refute. Our glares clashed, and inexplicably, her defiance roused me as much as the heft of her in my arms.

“Those really were…werewolves?” Even holding her this close, a human male wouldn’t have heard her whisper.

But I heard. And I heard all the stunned questions behind that simple one. “Everything you’re feeling—the sensory overload, the urge to run, the need, the hunger—it’s the beast in you awakening.”

“I’m not…” Her stubby lashes fluttered down then right up again, as if unwilling to grant me even that petty dominance. “I don’t have a beast inside me.”

I gave her a crooked smile. “Everyone has a beast.”

For once, she didn’t argue, only took a shuddering breath, sagging back into my embrace.

I braced my boots against her weight. God, she felt good in my arms, hot and sweet. If only she wanted to be there.

I softened my stance to cradle her more gently—

And she spun out of my grasp, using the fulcrum of my hold on her hand to spin out wide. I reached for her, to regain control, but she punched me in the nose. Hard.

The wolf in me yelped. Instinctively, I clamped both hands over my face. Wolf noses are sensitive.

Freed from my grip, she sprinted away.

Damn it. For all her cute shoes and flippy skirt and that slow-down-curves-ahead body, she was fast. Blood dripped between my fingers as I watched her rabbit.

How embarrassing.

The wolf shook its head and snorted.

Then we took off in pursuit.

Chapter 6 ~ Bettina

I was gasping so hard, no way could I hear if he was behind me.

But I didn’t dare look back either. I’d learned never to look back.

I was halfway down Main before I wondered why I hadn’t run into Swayze’s.

If I had, Carmen would have called Frank, and he would’ve definitely left his cold crime scene for an attempted abduction. But I didn’t even think of circling around. He’d be able to cut me off, easy. If he wasn’t right behind me, right now.

Despite all my common sense—oh sure, where had it been up until now?—warning me not to, I chanced a glance back.

No one. The street behind me was empty.

Really? I slowed my headlong pace. I swiveled my head side to side, searching.

Nothing lurked in the recessed doorways of the closed shops and offices. I held my breath as long as I could, straining my ears for any thud of boot heels. But the rain had picked up, and I couldn’t hear the country or the western that had been playing earlier at the bar.

Those lucky bastards. They had no idea what was going on.

Of course, neither did I, really.

I’d been bitten by…something. Okay, say wolves, for lack of a better term. Say werewolves, my imagination whispered, because that’s what they were.

My breath wheezed out. “I am not saying werewolves.”

Suspiciously eyeing the darkness around me, I angled through the business streets to the residential area beyond. I circled my block, keeping away from the streetlights, not wanting my pupils to constrict in the light.

I crouched beside the bushes that ringed the backyard of Oma’s house. Since I was alone and spent so many hours at the bakery, it’d seemed silly to have such a big place. But I couldn’t sell it, not when all the precious memories I had were there. So I rented out the main house and lived in the studio apartment over the garage.

The garden beds were cleared for the winter except for some giant sunflowers, their bent heads mostly picked clean by the birds. In the gloom, the spindly skeletons made my nerves prickle.

Nothing moved through the darkness except the raindrops. I shivered again, the chill sinking through my skin and into my bones. I needed to get inside, get warm, get help.

I sped up the back stairs of the garage to my door.

My keys were somewhere in the alley behind the bakery, but like any small-town girl, I kept a spare in a secret place above the doorframe. Not right on the doorframe—even a small-town girl wasn’t that stupid—but tucked into an overlap of the shingles.

I whisked inside and locked the door behind me. I sank to the floor with the door pressing into my back, the linoleum chilly under my bare ass.

Oh goddamn it. He still had my underwear.

That was the least of my problems, I knew, but for some reason, that trifling outrage gave me the strength to push to my feet. I started to reach for the light switch, but then stopped myself. No sense letting anyone know I was home. I paused, noting I could see surprisingly well just with the silvery light of the rain.

No way should I have been able to see so clearly.

Refusing to continue that line of thought, I stomped into the tiny bathroom, shedding my soaked clothes as I went.

Soaked with rain and our mixed juices.

Okay, another thought I refused to keep thinking.

I turned the spray as hot as it would go to wash this whole night away. But despite the scalding water, I couldn’t stop the tremors wracking me.

Only his touch has left me burning…

I soaped and soaped until all evidence of him and the night were gone. I even soaked off the bandage over my arm. I refused to look at the wound, but I felt the twin slashes under my fingertips.

I’d been bitten.

My knees went to jelly. And not good, stout, homemade fruit preserves either, but that wimpy, high fructose corn syrup crap. I had to press my forehead to the side of the shower to keep myself upright. Whatever bravery had let me punch a man—Bets? Really?—was wearing very thin.

And for once, thin didn’t sound so good. When the hot water finally ran out, I wrapped myself in my silk kimono.

“You deserve nice things,” Oma had said when she gave it to me.

Too bad that only applied to things and not people. Tommy had just been the last—and worst—in a short, shitty line of bad relationships after Oma’s death that had left me thinking maybe I was destined to be alone, at least romantically speaking. Carmen was a good friend, of course, and my two employees, Nickie and Sheba, could always be counted on for both good work and fun times. I had regular customers who loved my food, which was almost the same as loving me.

Yeah, I heard how pathetic that sounded. I pulled the silk tighter around me, as if the flimsy cord could hold me against the swamping waves of weakness, like strong arms.

I froze and half closed my eyes, remembering a certain arm, bulging with muscle under taut linen, a strap over one shoulder. The strap of a backpack that had slithered down to the pavement when he’d dragged me into the alley.

“Aw hell,” I whispered. Reeve had my backpack. My wallet. My ID. My address.

One hectic thump of my heart sent wild energy surging through me like a double shot of espresso. I whipped off my robe, my skin tingling as if I’d just had a brisk sugar scrub all over, and I ran for the closet. Never had I been more grateful for living in a studio with everything right in reach. I was dressed in seconds: jeans, batik camisole, running shoes, big damn granny panties. Not in that order, obviously.

I shoved my way into a fleece hoodie, cursing when it hung up over my head, briefly leaving me deaf and blind, then I raced for the door. I’d left my raincoat in my backpack, so I’d have to get wet again.

Not wet for him, mind you.

I didn’t have a landline in the studio since I used my cell phone—which was in my backpack—and no way was I bringing trouble to the cute little family in Oma’s house, not at this crazy hour, not ever.

I was on my own. And I deserved it for being so stupid.

I didn’t look back as I fled the house. Which was strange, since I loved the house and it was my only retreat except for the bakery. But for some reason, the night—even with the rain and the danger—seemed to welcome me into its darkness. I slipped through the shadows of the next yard over, staying away from the street, as I circled toward Elliott’s house. I’d owe him frosted butter cookies for life, but he’d be able to look at my wound and tell me everything would be fine, and he’d have a phone so I could call Frank and report… Well, I’d report something.

Two houses down, I had to jump a fence.

I had never jumped a fence in my entire life, and yet my body seemed to know exactly what to do: time the strides toward the nose-high wooden barrier, grasp the upper edge, pivot the hips with the momentum, heave—

The wooden fence swayed and creaked as I stumbled on the other side, more shocked at the fact I’d made it over than because I slipped. Huh. Watching all those one a.m. action movies was finally paying off.

Now if only I could forget the three a.m. horror movies.

I jumped the opposite fence and landed in Elliott’s yard, this time without stumbling.

I was on a roll and pretty sure I was burning some serious calories. Yay me.

Elliott’s house was the last on the street. Beyond was the second- and third-growth pine forest that surrounded most of the town of Rogue Pass. Elliott apparently didn’t have time for gardening; saplings had taken root on the edges of his yard, a slow-advance army as the forest reclaimed its rightful place.

I inhaled deeply, catching my breath and catching too a faint scent of something that didn’t belong.

Or rather, something that belonged to the forest, not to this last line of the civilization where I’d spent my whole life.

Up until now.

I turned my head, trying to find another whiff to pinpoint what and where.

The rain had stopped for the moment, although a slight breeze still ruffled the pine needles. Everything glittered in the porch light filtering across the backyard, so the whole night seemed to be in motion in a way I’d never noticed before.

It was like I’d left behind all my shakiness back at the apartment. It felt incredible. I felt incredible.

Pivoting away from Elliott’s house with its cautious little light trying to fill the shadows, I faced the forest.

I caught a glimpse of them then, the only perfectly still shapes in the shimmering night. The three of them looked somehow even bigger than in the alley, as if the brooding forest behind them and the darkness let me see the truth.

And the truth was, they weren’t coyotes, not wolves, not even rabid wolves.

Werewolves.

My brain railed against the word, but my gut knew. My belly cramped, like a vise had closed around me, but I wasn’t sure if rage or fear had me in its grip. Oh, so these fuckers wanted to turn me into one of them? I rolled up onto the toes of my sneakers and took a deep lungful of the night. I’d show them what it was like to be attacked.

A squeal pierced my ears, and for a startled moment, I thought it was me, screaming a challenge like some fool. God, if Elliott came out, they’d destroy him— Just as quickly, I realized it was the sound of tires.

“Bettina!”

It was Reeve. My head jerked around toward his shout, hoarse with urgency and yet still eerily poignant and so beautiful I thought I might follow him anywhere, just to hear again my name on his lips.

“This way! Now!”

The saner part of me hesitated, contemplating how I’d punched him in the face not so long ago, but my body jolted into motion, unquestioning. I whirled to follow his powerful form, which had somehow already become familiar to my eyes despite the shadows.

Behind me, I sensed the three menacing shapes burst silently from the woods.

Reeve was running toward the street where a sleek two-door Beemer idled at the curb going the wrong way, the driver-side door still open. He jolted to a halt, reaching back to me. “Get in!”

I slapped my palm into his, and he slung me toward the car. I dove through the open doorway, and my knees slammed over the center console, the pressure wave of his bulk right behind me.

I was flung sideways into the passenger seat cushion as he threw the coupe into gear, the door still open.

He swore, and I glanced over my shoulder to see the golden werewolf lunging for Reeve as the car jumped forward. The door swung closed, but oh so slowly—

The beast hit the door, bending the frame with a sickening crunch.

This time, the squeal was the car tires and me.

While I struggled to right myself in the bucket seat and get my feet down on the floor, Reeve never slowed. He rammed out with his elbow while he slalomed the sports car like he was a sullen teen on a skateboard. The wolf clung in the half-open door. Its claws scrabbled on the carbon fiber with a spine-cramping screech.

Spit sprayed across the windshield when it snapped giant jaws at Reeve. Fangs gleamed in the streetlights, and I cringed, knowing how badly they could hurt.

But Reeve roared into its face and slammed his elbow out again. He caught the beast in the side of the head, smashing it into the jagged frame of the bent car door.

The wolf dropped out of sight. I twisted to stare out the rear window. The monster bounced and rolled a few times before coming to rest at the feet of the two smaller gray wolves. One tilted its head back and bayed.

Werewolves.

Reeve gunned the coupe, the aural equivalent of a waving middle finger, before he glanced sidelong at me with a wicked grin.

“So, that thing I mentioned about werewolves existing,” he drawled. “You believe me now?”

I wasn’t sure if I should smack him for scaring me. Or kiss him for saving me.

As the night closed around us on all sides, I thought maybe I’d have to do both.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at Part 2

Wolf Born: Heart of the Pack Part 2: Chased

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About the Author

Elsa Jade, author of sexy shapeshifting romances, also writes paranormal romance, urban fantasy romance, and science fiction romance as Jessa Slade and sexy contemporary romance as Jenna Dales. In all her incarnations, she believes in the transformational power of love and is thrilled to share her stories with like-minded readers.

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PART 2: Chased

Chapter 1 ~ Reeve

I jerked the car door closed—as closed as it would go with its werewolf-sized dent, never taking my lead foot off the gas pedal. “So much for the resale value,” I grumbled. “This is—was—a first-generation Z4 in mint condition, not a sardine can to be peeled open and slurped clean. Fucking scavengers.”

I glanced over at Bettina, who was half kneeling in the seat beside me to look out the back. Obviously she was still having some doubts that I had snatched her ass right out of Lysander’s jaws.

“Put your seat belt on, Bets,” I said. I had to raise my voice over the rush of wind through the bent doorframe, but maybe a touch of normalcy would delay the inevitable freak-out.

She gave me an astonished look as she straightened around. “I really think click-it-or-ticket is the least of my worries tonight.”

Since she wasn’t wrong, I didn’t reply.

She continued, “And no offense, but I’d rather be free to bail out if necessary.”

That I did need to answer. “You can’t run again. Lysander has your scent. He’ll find you wherever you go. And believe me, you want me there to stop him.”

She speared her fingers through her hair over her ears, as if she wanted to block out my words. But then she flattened her hands over her thighs, her knuckles whitened as if she could hold onto the reality she had known. Reluctance vibrated in her tone, when she asked, “Lysander? That’s the golden wolf?”

I nodded. “He is alpha prime of his pack of killers.” According to rumor, it was a pack of thirteen. Rumor only, though. Hard intel was in scant supply since Lysander rarely left anyone behind to talk about him. Even the paw prints and bite marks were inconclusive. I wondered where the other ten were.

Maybe it was all rampant speculation. Werewolf packs were never that large. Not anymore. Between the centuries of wolf hunts and the inherent perils of werewolf life, we couldn’t afford to congregate in such numbers. But if Lysander had found a way, he was even more of a menace than we already feared.

No sense borrowing trouble, though. I’d been lucky against him and his two followers. If I had to face all thirteen at once, even I wasn’t arrogant enough to think I could win.

Never slacking the coupe off ninety mph, I pulled out my phone and texted off a warning to my crew.

Bettina narrowed her dark eyes. “You like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

“No.” I shoved the phone back in my pocket. “I like to live quietly, doing what I want, with no one the wiser. But that wasn’t an option tonight.”

And maybe never again. I’d been so determined to hold my Rogue Mountain boys against the volatility inherent in a pack of alpha werewolves, never exposing them to the vulnerability of a female. But I couldn’t abandon Bettina to Lysander. I’d kill her myself rather than leave her to that miserable fate.

Some of that violence must have been in my sidelong glance, because she bit her lip, inciting a flush of blood. To the seething morass of resentment and possessiveness in my gut, I added a pang of regret that she was so clearly hesitant to trust me.

As I stared at her mouth, another twinge—lower down and completely wrong for the circumstances—made it clear she shouldn’t trust me. Damn those animal instincts.

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The trouble continues in Wolf Born: Heart of the Pack Part 2: Chased

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