2

“You, me, beer, and poker,” he says, the two of us falling into step together as we head toward our houses.

I grin. “Still salty about that fifty bucks I took from you last week?”

“I deserve a chance to reclaim my dignity. And my money.” He smirks. “Odds are good I’ll win. You’re not staring down a good track record tonight, Stumbles.”

“Just because I fell on the hunt doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wipe the floor with you, Scooby,” I shoot back, using the old childhood nickname he hates. “But not tonight. I’m going to head into town. Blow off a little steam.”

“Oh, yeah. ‘Blow off some steam,’” he says pointedly, then makes a crude gesture with his hand and mouth that leave no room for interpretation.

I hate how there are no secrets in this friendship.

“Don’t blame me for needing a little fun in my life, grandpa,” I quip as I turn toward my house. “While I go ‘blow off some steam,’ you go ahead and enjoy re-reading your favorite copy of Popular Mechanics before you drink Earl Grey and go to bed before nine.”

“I don’t even like Earl Grey!” he calls after me.

His laughter follows me up the two shallow steps to my front door, then he adds, “Be safe out there.”

“I will,” I call back, then disappear inside.

My cabin isn’t much. Most days, I don’t even feel like it’s really mine. It was my parents’ place, and I inherited it when they died. Lived here with a caretaker through my youth, then alone once I was old enough.

I’m always alone.

I grab a quick shower since I haven’t had one today, dry off and wrap the towel around my body, then brush out my long dark hair. No use trying to style it when I’m going to shift to get to town. Good thing the “windblown waves” look is popular.

My closet creaks like a dying deer as I throw open the door, and I glare at the old metal hinges for a moment before stomping off to my kitchen for the WD-40. I oil up those bad boys and give the door a few test swings. I’ve been considering replacing the whole thing since the door’s a flimsy piece of shit with some warping on the bottom. Maybe Grady would let me borrow his truck for a trip to Home Depot.

Not a problem for tonight though. Tonight, I’m on the prowl.

I flip through hangers for the perfect fuck me dress. I’m not big on dresses; it’s not really my aesthetic. I like soft cotton, tight jeans, and tank tops. But guys like dresses, especially when they’re short, tight, and leave very little to the imagination.

The number one rule of hunting—other than “don’t fall on your face”—is to know your prey.

I pick out a short, strapless red number and shove it in my pack, then find a pair of black kitten heels tucked into the very back of the closet. I add a tube of mascara, an eyeliner pencil, and red lipstick to my pack, then take one last look around before I head out.

Where the gravel roads meet the wilds on the edge of the village, I slip the pack over my shoulders and shift. The straps hung off my back when I was in human form, but they fit snugly around my broad wolf’s torso. After shaking out my fur a little, I sprint off into the darkness, giving myself over to the power in my legs.

Nothing beats being in wolf form as I race through the open plains flanked by snow-capped mountains. Cool wind ruffles my fur as my body heats up, and the pounding of my paws on the dirt creates a steady rhythm—there’s a beauty in it that has no match in human form.

The nearest town to North Pack lands is a dinky, one stoplight kind of place that takes a while to reach. I’m not even sure I know what the place is called, and frankly, I don’t care. If I go into this particular town, I’m going for one reason and one reason only.

I see the lights before I smell the humanity, and I come to a halt behind an old horse barn to shift and dress. The red tube dress fits my body like a second skin, emphasizing my height and my lithe curves. I swipe on my makeup as I squint into a tiny compact by the light of the stars, but I’ve done it enough times before that muscle memory takes over.

Once I’m all dolled up, I leave my pack on the ground behind the barn, hook my finger through the straps on my heels, and walk into town.

The main street is quaint. Two strips of shops line either side of the road in a rustic log cabin kind of architecture. The sidewalks hold large barrel planters of colorful flowers, and the streetlights are decorative with soft glowing globes. I pause next to a planter and use the rim to balance as I tug on my heels, then continue to the bar area at the end of the road.

Being such a small place, there are only three bars to choose from, and none of them have the most desirable clientele. I’m not picky though. I decided a long time ago not to fuck around with wolves from my pack. It just makes shit messy later on when mate bonds form. I’m not interested in being the bitch that fucked someone’s soulmate.

I head for the better of the three bars—a little hole in the wall called Keggers that tends to have a younger crowd and a comfortable atmosphere for women. The bartender-slash-owner is a woman named Barb who looks like she could kick even Ridge’s ass, so creepy dudes don’t last very long in her establishment.

The party’s well underway when I arrive. The place is packed to the rafters, dim and smoky. An auto-tuned dubstep song blasts from the sound system over the noise of chatting, laughter, and clinking glasses. I wind my way through the high top tables dotting the middle of the floor and find an empty chair at the long dark wooden bar.

Barb sidles up to me, tossing a stained white rag over her shoulder. She’s built like a semi with a cute face, dark hair buzzed short, and shrewd brown eyes that miss nothing. “What’ll it be?”

“Gin and tonic. Top shelf,” I add.

Barb winks at me. “You got it, sis.”

While she slaps my drink together, I take a moment to peruse the wares. Lots of groups here tonight: a few college-age kids looking for a good time; a group of construction workers in dusty boots and Carhartt jackets; a couple tables holding out-of-towners. I can always tell when they aren’t from around here. They have a different smell, for one thing. And they alway

s look confused, like they aren’t clear on how they ended up in the middle of nowhere Montana. This state could swallow you, if you let it.

Barb slides my glass across the smooth, sticky bar in front of me then bustles off to the next customer. She’ll start me a tab. She always does.

I sip my gin and tonic slowly, scanning the room with my best “bored but approachable” look. It’s never let me down before, and this time is no different.

One of the construction workers catches my eye and raises his glass in a toast to me. He’s not exactly a male model, but he’s cute enough. Boots muddy from the worksite, a plaid shirt peeking out from beneath the open khaki jacket. He’s deeply tanned, a little aged from his work in the sun, but his lips are nice.

I raise my glass too, returning his gesture.

He says something to his buddies and grins, then leaves the table to come join me.

“Can’t help but see that you’re all alone,” he drawls, leaning an elbow on the bar between me and the occupied chair beside me.

“Noticed that, did you?” I cock my head, laying on the teasing in my tone. I know the buttons to push. The secret looks to use. The way to pitch my words so that he knows I’m interested.

I came here looking to blow off some steam, and this guy will do just fine.

“Can’t imagine why a woman as beautiful as you would be alone on a night like this,” the man says, his gaze sweeping my face. “What’s your name, sugar?”

Before I can decide whether to give him one of my patented fake names or just play coy, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Goosebumps race over my skin a split second before a cool breeze rushes through the bar from the open door.

I glance over at the newcomer and my heart ceases beating.

He takes up the entire doorway—tall, massive, tattooed, hotter than the Montana sun in August. Everything about him screams danger and sex, from the way his dark hair looks like he’s run his hands through it a few times to the tattoos that climb his neck and arms from beneath his white t-shirt. I can see the shadow of more tattoos beneath the thin cotton and my mouth waters because I want to fucking lick every inch of that hidden skin.

His gaze moves over the crowded bar looking as bored as I feel, and then his eyes lock onto mine.

Thick lashes cradle deep brown eyes with an intense ring of gold around the pupils. I’ve never seen anything like them.

The noise in the bar.

The music.

The laughter.

All of it fades away the moment our eyes meet. Desire unfurls in me just from the way he looks at me, and I press my knees together as my greedy imagination feeds me images of what he might look like naked.

He walks into the bar, and the door slams shut behind him. But the cool breeze doesn’t fade away—it follows him into the room, blowing his scent toward me.

Whiskey and woodsmoke. Jack on the rocks and a campfire and my fingers on his bare skin.

A dull ache starts between my legs, and I throb with every step he takes. His gaze remains locked on mine like he can see right through me, like he can smell my lust, and fuck if I don’t want to bend over the bar and demand he take me right here.

The first guy, the construction worker, is a distant memory. He seems to notice something is up too, because he steps away from the bar, glances between me and the stranger, and cuts out back to his party.

It’s fine, buddy. I wouldn’t want to tangle with a giant, either.

The tattooed stranger takes his time reaching the bar. He steps up beside me and taps my neighbor on the shoulder. The guy sitting on the stool to my right is an older, accountant-looking dude in wire-rimmed glasses, and the poor man takes one look at the sinful Adonis standing behind him and skitters off like a startled cockroach.

Up close, this gorgeous, tattooed hunk of man is almost overwhelming. His whiskey and smoke scent is intoxicating. It covers up the stale beer and fried food scent of the bar until I feel like I’m drowning in his presence.

He’s hardly settled on the stool before Barb shuffles down the bar. “What’ll it be, Rambo?”

The man flashes an amused grin that’s almost feral. “Whiskey. Neat. Top shelf.”

I fight the urge to moan. Fucking hell. A man after my own tastes. He has a deep rumbling voice that sends my desire into overdrive.