Lone Wolf

I’m tearing through the bayou. I’m a wolf. I love to hunt, and there’s no better place to do it than the Louisiana bayou. Reeds whip at my skin when I go too close, get too fast to the water’s edge. Sometimes I run in my wolf form, but other times I stick to my human skin. It all depends on what I’m hunting. As an enforcer for the Breed, my motorcycle club, my prey tends to be living, breathing, and run on two legs. A surprising number of idiots think they can cross our club and get away with it—and that’s not counting my fellow wolves who decide pack law can’t possibly apply to them.

Oui. I fucking learn their asses.

I’m the ruler our Alpha raps their knuckles with. The long arm of the law reaching for their running, whining selves. If you break the rules, I’ll come for you. I don’t take excuses, can’t be bought off, won’t stop. Look at my face and you’ll know it’s true. In my human skin, I’m scary as shit, my face and forearms scarred by an alligator attack, my dark hair buzzed close to my scalp in a way that makes me look like a street fighter. A mob enforcer. The stuff of nightmares. Fucking take your pick—I don’t care. My usual uniform is blue jeans, boots, and an arsenal of weapons. My club vest with its Breed patch is all the heads-up you need. You don’t fuck with me and live, and if you see me in your rearview mirror, you’d damned well better hit the gas.

My wolf skin? Oui, that’s even scarier. When I shuck the human trappings, I trade up for two hundred pounds of pissed-off lupine. The gator’s scars don’t go away, though. They’re part of who I am, and my wolf wears the same marks as my human side does. This part of me is brindle-colored, the wolf’s eyes gold. Somebody once tried to tell me they were pretty. I don’t do pretty. That’s not who I am. Just remember that my teeth and claws are every bit as lethal as the blades and chains the man wears.

The man running through the bayou, legs pumping, arms working, is the aberration. He can’t be the real me because he’s hunting for a happily-ever-after and not prey. He’s out of control, panicked, the breath sawing from his lungs as if it’s got somewhere better to be. Someplace it would rather be. His dark hair is ruffled like he ran his fingers over that shit or maybe tried to tear it out. As if baldness might help him focus. As if the white plastic EPT stick shoved in his back pocket isn’t enough of a distraction.

The real me doesn’t panic.

The real me doesn’t run like he’s had the piss scared out of him and maybe if he makes like a fucking gazelle he can haul his stupid ass somewhere safer. Or saner.

Because there’s no way I’m gonna be a daddy. Poppy can’t be pregnant.

Werewolves don’t knock humans up, not easily. Some of it’s just basic birds and the bees stuff. Sure, we still have to procreate like every other species does, but we don’t do it often because, given how long we live, the world would be overrun with werewolves. Fucking think about that for a moment. You humans wouldn’t be on the top of the food chain anymore. You’d be somewhere lower, somewhere snack-sized. We’re steak in the buffet of life, and you’re the complimentary peanuts the airlines pass out. Barely a mouthful. Hardly enough to satisfy.

The strangest part about today’s maddened run through the bayou, however, is that I’m not alone. I’m always alone. I’m the ultimate lone wolf, living on the edges of the pack and avoiding human contact whenever possible. And yet today, two of my club brothers run with me. I asked them to come with me, to watch my back, to…

Help?

Fuck if I know.

My hand’s shaking when I look down at it. I make a fist to make myself feel better because the jitters can’t be right. I don’t shake, don’t waver. I get the job done. This unexpected weakness has to be why Jace keeps pace with me effortlessly, his booted feet chewing up the ground.

“You wanna stop and talk about this?” He growls the words, but they’re still more request than command. He’s not insisting that I yield to him. Not yet. He’s my Alpha and part of me… part of me won’t stop, not even for him.

I need to find Poppy because she’s all that matters.

Jace and Fang put a stop to my roll. It’s some comfort that it takes two of them to take me down. Maybe I haven’t lost my mojo entirely. Maybe I’m not completely broken. Fang hits me hard and low, arms wrapping around my legs, while Jace tackles my shoulders. I could shift, but my wolf doesn’t speak, and there are things that have to be said. Eventually.

I land on the ground and fight, but the truth is… I don’t want to hurt them, and that gives them a huge advantage. It doesn’t take long before they’ve got me pinned. Jace leans down into my face. His eyes are glowing with rage, with impatience. I’m supposed to be the easy wolf. The loner. The one member of his pack who fixes problems instead of causing them. I’ll bet he’s not happy with the role reversal we’ve got going on here.

I snarl at him because I’m out of words.

I have nothing to say about this mess I’m in.

Jace wraps one big hand around my throat. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Talking’s supposed to make shit better, right? Supposed to be a chance to air it out and maybe get some clarity. Do you think a conversation is going to fix this? That there’s anything the three of us can say that will undo the happy little news flash broadcast on that damn white stick?

Not a fucking chance.

Jace pounds on me, the blows a kind of gentle punctuation to his muttered questions. He’s not hurting me. He’s just trying to get my attention. When I say I’m a werewolf, I’m not kidding. I can take far, far worse than he’s dishing out.

“If you don’t tell me why you’re hauling ass through the bayou, I’m dragging you back to the clubhouse, swear to Jesus.”

Jace’s touchy-feely needs work.

I let my head fall back onto the ground. For a long moment, I stare up at the sky. Funny how it’s such a pretty day. The sky’s almost impossibly blue, and it’s sunny. It’s the kind of day made for lying on a riverbank and soaking in the sunshine. Poppy loves spending her afternoon sprawled out on a blanket, covered in sunshine, and I love the small sleepy smile she gets on her face as the warmth soaks in and she goes boneless with happiness. She’s so fucking special.

“Gator! Are you listening to me?”

I close my eyes. Blindness is a cop out. I always meet my responsibilities head on. I never back down. But being out here reminds me of… her… and that just reminds me of why I was hauling ass through the bayou. If Jace isn’t letting me up, I’m not playing nice. Plus there’s always the chance that I catch him off guard.

Jace’s mate is pregnant. He knows what this feels like. The excitement, the scared-as-shit sensation tearing up the pit of my stomach like the worst case of heartburn ever. Poppy and I had sex, and then we accidentally brought someone else into our equation. Our mini-me will be a whole new person and that’s overwhelming. And fabulous. I’ve spent so much time running alone that I’ve forgotten how to run with my pack, and that’s not something I’m proud of. But this is also my problem, not Jace’s. My… woman.

My not-mate.

My heart.

“Fuck this.” Jace surges to his feet, dragging me with him. Fang must let go of my legs because I pop up. This puts me nose-to-nose with my Alpha, and I stare at him good and hard. I don’t drop my gaze, don’t bare my neck. I’m not backing down on this, even if he doesn’t know yet what this is.

“Talk to me.” He drags me closer which is a mistake. I could bite, could snap, could lash out at him. But he’s trusting me not to hurt him. He’s trusting… me.

“Poppy.” I tell myself her name comes out firm and stern, with none of that emotional sigh-crap that my insides are definitely brewing. Because when I think about her I feel so many things. I feel everything. Jace is holding me up, and I’m mooning over a woman who’s not even here. Who is, in fact, putting as much distance between the two of us as she can.

“What about her?”

Behind him, looking baffled, is Fang. Fang’s a good brother and loyal, but he’s no expert in the relationship department. Pretty sure he’s fucked every female he’s ever met with very few exceptions. Dumbass even made a play for Jace’s girl, a mistake that leaves me surprised that he’s still breathing. Wolves don’t share, but I’ve given up trying to figure out how it works. Instead, I blurt out the truth. Or part of it.

“She’s pregnant.”

The baffled look leaves Jace’s face and is replaced by apprehension. Pretty sure anger is gonna be a close second because he asks the obvious question.

“Yours?”

As if there’s any doubt. “Oui.”

That one condemning word hangs in the steamy, sultry air between us.

Fang whistles. “You’ve got to bag it, bro.”

One broken condom was all it took because I failed to anticipate what could happen if the deposit my dick made turned out to be super sperm. I failed to protect Poppy.

So it makes perfect sense to me that I take my frustrations out on Fang. I surge out of Jace’s hold, arm swinging, and punch my brother hard on his jaw. His head flies back even as his own fists come up because he’s every bit as much a fighter as I am.

Fang may be lower than me in the club, but out here some rules do not apply. He launches himself at me, and I more than meet him halfway. It feels so fucking good to act, to do something. The meaty thud of fists smacking into flesh fills up the silence of the bayou, and the bright bite of pain almost eclipses the unfamiliar ache in my heart. Fang is a dirty fighter and lands as many punches as I do. We grapple and roll, slamming each other into the ground, over and over.

“Enough,” I hear Jace snarl eventually. He doesn’t sound pissed, but there’s plenty of other emotions in his voice. It’s one thing for him to knock his mate up—she’s a wolf. She knows that she’s baking a baby shifter in her belly. Poppy knows nothing about our world except what she’s observed in the bayou—and she still thinks the wolf traces are red wolves, not werewolves. The truth is gonna be one hell of a surprise.

I roll off Fang, my head hitting dirt as I stare up at the sky. Funny how the sun’s still shining. I need to find Poppy. Fuck, I need so many things.

“Let’s try this again,” Jace snarls. I feel his hand close around the back of my shirt, dragging me upright. For him, the move is almost gentle. There’s nothing easy about the pack. We fight hard, ride hard, do pretty much everything hard. But he’s always been there for us. Even when Big Red ran our pack and Jace was the new wolf on the block, he tried to make sure we were all taken care of. He stepped between brothers and Big Red’s fists on more than one occasion, and he’s stamped out a lot of bad behavior since he challenged for and won the leadership role. I’ve never needed the TLC he gives the others. I’ve always stood on my own, lending him my strength, watching his back.

So how fucked up is this?

“I knocked her up,” I tell him. “Wasn’t intentional. Didn’t mean for it to happen.”

Jace lets go of my shirt and takes a small step back. I think he’s trying to give me space or something because he just sort of breathes through his nose like he’s processing my dumbass words. Knowing how babies are made is pretty fucking basic. If we were playing one of those game shows where you have to name the most popular responses to a question, thou shalt not knock up the humans would be the winner-fucking-dinner for Things Werewolves Don’t Do.

“You sure?” Jace’s hand sort of hovers over my back. If he starts patting me, he’ll lose that hand, guaranteed. And since a picture is worth a thousand words, I whip the tiny plastic stick out of my back pocket and slap it onto his palm.

He looks down.

Two lines, a hell-fucking-yeah on the pregnancy spectrum.

He looks over at Fang, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Babies are so not Fang’s thing. Jace, however, knows exactly what he’s holding. It’s a home pregnancy test, the little window proudly displaying its two pink lines. Just in case there’s any question, the test’s makers have added a handy-dandy legend to the left of the window that unpacks any mystery. One line means you’re free and clear; two lines means knocked up, game over, you’re a plus-one for the next eighteen years.

Jace tosses me the stick. “How did this happen?”

Fang snorts. “When a man loves a woman, Alpha, he—”

Jace growls something obscene—but actually quite explanatory of my current situation—and punches Fang. It’s a half-hearted smack, more of a shut-the-fuck-up rather than a real attempt to put the hurt on our younger brother. Fang dances out of the way easily enough. He also shuts up, so mission accomplished.

I repeat the one important fact, the single sentence beating through my head like a tornado siren. “She’s having my baby.”

Jace nods. “Does she know what she’s having?”

And that, right there, is the all-important question.

I wince. “The ultrasound’s gonna be one hell of a wake-up call.”

This is where Jace should go to town on me. Not only have I broken one of our unspoken rules, but I’ve made the whole mess worse. I’ve knocked up a human who doesn’t know that werewolves exist. Poppy is a scientist at heart, and while she’s remained certain that red wolves have been reintroduced to the bayou despite the pooh-poohing of her fellow scientists, she doesn’t realize just how close to the truth she’s come.

“She ran,” I growl. I don’t sound particularly pleasant. I wish I could, that it were easy to change myself into someone rock solid and charming. Her Prince Charming. But there’s no charm school for werewolves, and I’m gonna have to fix this on my own.

Jace crosses his arms over his chest. Fucker looks relaxed, but he knows exactly where he left his mate—and that she’ll welcome him back with open arms.

“And this was your big plan to catch her?” He sweeps an arm toward the water. “Running after her wearing an arsenal and a scowl?”

Okay. So my plan sucks. And it would probably only work if she were a deer. Or insanely, hopelessly in love with me.

Which she’s not.

She told me so.

I’d like to pretend that I don’t feel those things for you speech of hers didn’t feel like she was eviscerating my heart with a grapefruit spoon, but the truth is that it did. Worse than when that alligator chewed my face to hell and back all those years ago. Apparently, that’s what happens when you fall in love—you hand the grapefruit spoon to your beloved and give her permission to have at it.

I try the words out loud. “I love her.”

Fang makes a gagging noise. “Condom, bro.”

Jace and I both ignore him. Maybe he’ll grow up in another century or two.

Jace nods once. “Then we’ll figure this out. Somehow.”

Jace doesn’t sound terribly optimistic. Maybe that’s because I’m the man who’s in love. I’m not the kind of guy women fall for. And honestly, I’ve never cared before. I’ve been happy doing my thing, living alone. In addition to not having the manners of Prince Charming, I also fall well short in the looks department thanks to my scars. I’m beastly through and through, and the visible lack of a white horse and castle should just be the icing on the ugly cake.

“She ran.” I’m the King of Obvious today, but it goes with the one wolf pity party I’m hosting here in the bayou. Christ. I suck.

Jace shrugs. “And you’re running after her.”

Fang snorts behind him and mumbles something less than complimentary about my planning skills. He’s not wrong.

So even though Jace seems to think everything can be worked out, that there could be a happily-ever-after lurking in my future, I have to tell him the truth. “She broke up with me. She doesn’t… she doesn’t want me in her life, Jace.”

Jace’s face fills with rough affection. Our Alpha has always wanted what’s best for us. He’s only been mated with Keelie Sue for a short while, but Cupid shot his ass full of arrows and love stuck. For Jace, his mate is the sun, moon, and stars, the everything in his universe. So if anyone can appreciate the fact that I’ve been reduced to bad poetry, it’s him, even if he’s never been the lone wolf and has always surrounded himself with a pack. He’s not like me because he doesn’t mind settling down and letting someone in. Letting someone love him the way forever mates do. The way the rest of the Breaux brothers in the next parish over do with the women they found during those freaky blue moons.

Up until now, I’ve always thought that blue moon shit would be a pain in the ass. The moon rises, it turns blue, and then you follow its rays like some kind of magical, sexed-up breadcrumb trail to your one perfect woman? I wish life were that easy, that the moon could be the perfect werewolf version of Tinder. But I don’t think so. And while it may have worked out for the Breauxs, it’s not for me.

I’ve always been the lone wolf—and I’ve never minded the space from other people. Why load your life up with other people? Why invite them in when they’ll only piss you off? Being alone is easier and exactly what I deserve.

Jace curses. Then I practically see him start thinking my shit through. He wants what’s best for me—and that’s what makes him such a good Alpha. Because he won’t let me hurt if he can go to bat for me. He’ll have to find some way to square what I want with what the pack needs, however, and that’s gonna be a challenge. Jace can kick ass, patch up relationships with the other Louisiana packs, and keep our wolves safe. So I know he’ll want to fix me. I’m his, and he won’t let me be busted on his watch.

“You need to think before you go after her. You need a plan. Some words. A reason for her to trust you. Christ knows, springing the werewolf thing on her won’t do it.”

I nod because he’s not wrong. I fucked up when I kept the truth of who I am from her. I was happy as a lone wolf, and when I wanted company, I ran with my brothers. Meeting Poppy changed all that. She literally crashed into my life and shook me up. She made me want to be different, to be more. To come out and take a look at the world with her.

It sounds stupid, doesn’t it?

And now she’s told me she doesn’t need anything from me… and that hurts. I want her to need it all. I need her to need me, to let me in. She’s proposing being a pack of two, but surely there has to be room for three? For me?

Sometimes when boy meets girl, boy doesn’t get the girl.

She’s Beauty. I’m the Beast. That story’s already been told, and life’s fresh out of happy endings.

Three months earlier…

My Alpha grunts something impossible.

Back in the old days, when we had a different Alpha, my next words would have been grounds for an ass kicking or worse. Things have changed for the Breed recently, however. Changes that, by and large, have been for the better. We kill way fewer humans now, even if some of my club brothers have mated with human females. To each his own, I guess. But this newfound freedom has me opening my mouth and asking for a little clarification. No way I heard what I think I heard.

I question him. “You want me to do what?”

He stares straight ahead, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “You heard me.”

I respectfully disagree with that statement. I kill the engine on my bike because the noise must be the reason I heard what I did. Or maybe it’s the whole mood music thing we’ve got going on at the clubhouse. My brothers don’t embrace silence voluntarily—they like it loud, wild, and thumping. The party raging tonight at the clubhouse is nothing out of our ordinary. A bonfire rages in the center of the courtyard, the half-dozen kegs lined up against the outside wall announcing that the clubhouse is well and truly open for business. The music pounds, and a crowd of half-dressed, super-lit, and perky females dance to the beat. I recognize a few of them. One or two I may have met and fucked in a local club just down the street where they bring in DJs, the girls dance up on the stage, and, oui, clothing gets removed after a judicious application of dollar bills. I don’t judge, and as long as everybody goes home happy, it’s good. I want sex; they want money. This is what makes a free market economy rock.

The girls do like to dance, though, even if it’s a fully clothed freebie on clubhouse time. They whoop it up, and my brother Fang’s all over them, his hips doing a swivel-and-thrust that would put the Chippendales to shame. Chippendales. Fuck me. Do those guys still dance? Or are they part of the old timers crowd, whooping it up in some nursing home somewhere? My pop culture references are turning into fucking antiquities, and I can’t bring myself to care.

Jace grunts again and folds his arms over his chest. My Alpha doesn’t give a shit for dress codes. Tonight may be a party, but he’s wearing his usual black T-shirt and jeans. His leather vest is a twin to mine and announces that we’re members of the Breed motorcycle club. He takes pity on me, however, and repeats his request.

His motherfucking, impossible, fetch-me-a-rock request.

“I want you to find me a scientist,” he rumbles. The corner of his mouth quirks up. He sounds like he’s ordering takeout. I’m fucking sick of pizza, so how about Chinese?

I bet they’ve got awesome scientists in China, and that’s one place I haven’t been yet. If I don’t get some goddamned clarity on what he needs from me, I’ll take my ass there and get him what he claims to want. Fuck knows this party is getting old anyhow. I prefer to be alone, and silence is way better than this racket.

I don’t usually attend our parties—the scene’s not my kind of thing. I like plenty of alone time, and too many people definitely make me want to kill someone. I’m the pack’s enforcer, the man in the shadows, the rough hand of justice. I knock you on your stupid ass and then I go.

“You want me to kill this scientist?”

Jace shakes his head a little too quickly. Guess I barked up the wrong fucking tree there, but killing’s kinda my specialty.

I take another stab at interpreting find. That’s such a vague word. Two minutes with my phone and Google, and I could find him a scientist—but I don’t think that’s what he wants.

I look him in the eye. “Any particular one you want me to go shopping for?”

While Jace chews that over, I keep half an eye on the cluster of brothers checking out the ladies over by the bonfire. Those girls don’t get hurt while I’m around. Hell, they don’t get hurt ever. Some of the girls just dance to make the cash they need, and I make sure they get their green and get home. Some, however, want a little walk on the wild side, and they come out here to the clubhouse.

Here’s some advice for all you ladies. I’m not judging. I know the reputation we bikers have in some circles. We’re bad boys who ride like the wind, and we’re walking, fucking billboards for an adrenaline rush and an orgasm or six. If you want that, you come and get it. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking that picking out a patch-wearing, Harley-riding bad boy gives you a shot at happily ever after because we leave faster than most, breaking all known speed limits.

“Yeah,” he drawls finally. “I’ve got one in mind. Poppy Burkhart-Jones. She’s new in town.”

No shit. I’ve never heard of her, although since I don’t exactly run in scientific circles that’s no surprise. It’s not my place to question my Alpha, but I’ve never played by the rules. I’ll do whatever Jace needs doing because I vowed to have his back, and I’ve never broken my promises to him—but I’m still gonna ask questions. A shitload of questions. I learned that the hard way under the last Alpha.

“Easier ways to date,” I tell him.

Yes, I know I’m pushing my luck. Jace hooked up with the former Alpha’s daughter. On the one hand, fucking Keelie Sue cemented Jace’s position as the anointed one and the next to rule. On the other hand, once he took down our old Alpha, he made it plenty clear that Keelie Sue was in his life because she fit there perfectly—and not because of who her daddy had been. I’m not looking for love and never have been, but it’s clear the two of them think they’ve found something special, and I’d be glad for them if I knew how.

Jace peels his lips back from his teeth, canines elongating slightly as he snarls at me. “I’m done with that.”

He sounds happy about it too, and I don’t blame him. While there’s plenty of pussy on offer at tonight’s party, it’s about as impersonal as it comes. Case in point? Fang. Our brother is working his dubious charms on a dancer in a teeny-tiny blue dress that’s more New Year’s Eve than bayou throw-down. He says something into Dancing Girl’s ear, and she throws her arms around his neck—and then scissors her legs around his waist, flashing the rest of the party a black thong. Christ. At least she wore panties. Fang hauls her off into the shadows, laughing.

I nod at Jace. “So Poppy’s for me because you’re concerned about my love life. Don’t be.”

Fact is, I don’t date. Or love. Or even screw much anymore. I’ve had almost two centuries to get that out of my system, and the novelty’s worn off. Women break too easily, and they want things I can’t, won’t give. I’m better off alone. Jace mutters something under his breath. Fuck him. I’m certain a dick can’t rust for lack of use—it’s not that kind of handle. I don’t think he appreciates good science because his next words are both louder and clearer.

“Doctor Burkhart-Jones is not your next blind date.”

What the hell kind of name is that? It sounds like an English country estate or one of those hoity-toity suburban new home communities with gates and a community pool. That shit’s great if it’s what you’re into, but it’s about as far from our biker world as Antarctica is from an all-inclusive beach resort in the sun.

“She’s armed and dangerous? Stole from the club? Dating the wrong guy?” Because if she’s any of these things, color me shocked. I’d have killed her already, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

He shakes his head. “She’s a research biologist. She claims that red wolves have been reintroduced into the Louisiana bayou.”

Every couple of years, some guy claims that he knows a guy who saw a wolf when he was plowing a field or out in the swamp shooting shit, or just parked on his front porch. Sometimes this guy even waves a couple of grainy photos around to prove his point. He’s wrong. There are no red wolves left in Louisiana; the humans culled their asses decades ago. Any wolf sightings are of the werewolf kind—and a mistake.

“Words are cheap.” This Poppy Burkhart-Jones can talk all she wants—it’s doing anything to back up her claims that could pose a problem.

Jace grunts something I decide to take for agreement. “She’s setting up trail cameras in the bayou. She thinks she can prove once and for all that there are wolves here.”

The Breaux brothers run one of the local packs, and their wolves won’t be caught on tape. The Breed, however, got sloppy under the last Alpha. Some of our brothers think with their dicks rather than sparing any brain cells. There are also a handful of true lone wolves out there in the bayou. Those wolves won’t know—or likely care—that this scientist woman is not-so-secretly recording them, and that means her odds of catching them on tape just went up significantly.

Okay, then.

“No killing?” It’s worth double-checking.

“Christ,” Jace growls. My Alpha might actually be praying. “No. She stays in one piece.”

“You want her scared?” Because fuck knows my face scares most people. The scars make them nervous—or worse.

Jace hesitates. Good enough for me. One scared scientist coming up. And maybe I am the wolf for the job after all. I have zero people skills. I don’t like humans. Hell, I don’t like most wolves unless they’re part of my pack.

“Just discourage her,” Jace rumbles finally, looking pleased that he’s coming up with a nice, safe word somewhere between kill and scare into having a heart attack.

“Might want to put one of the other wolves on her,” I suggest. Not that I really give a fuck if this scientist strokes out when I scare her, but Jace seems to want her in one living, breathing piece, and I don’t leave unicorns, rainbows, and happy vibes in my wake.

“She’s trespassing on your land,” he says mildly.

That definitely makes her my problem—I’m just wondering why I haven’t noticed her before. I don’t like anyone in my space, which is the point of my expansive real estate speculation. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you accumulate cash. Putting it to work for me in the form of exclusive acreage just seemed prudent and gives me the legal right to run anyone off.

“You know exactly where she’s been working?” The bayou is not just wild—it’s goddamned large, and I own a significant portion of it. Combing miles and miles of swamp for one misbehaving scientist could take weeks, but since Jace is concerned that she might actually catch one of us on tape, he must have a good idea of where she’s working.

“Pretty certain.” Jace texts me something from his phone, so I pull my own out and look. He’s sent me a map of the bayou. Thick black arrows trace what looks like some game trails and a couple of old fishing docks. Still, it’s a lot of space. Covering that much ground will take significantly longer than running down to the corner store for some milk. “Check these out.”

Fucking fantastic. My new mission in life is to look for a pain-in-the-ass biologist who’s convinced that red wolves have been reintroduced to the bayou. Doctor Burkhart-Jones… that’s a fancy name for someone who hides in the bushes watching animals fuck and then picks through their scat. One thing still needs clarification, however.

I eye my Alpha. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

Jace flashes me a grin. “Make sure she doesn’t find anything.”

Lot of fucking room to work with that request.

Since it’s better than hanging out at a party, I nod my agreement and head out. No one checks me as I go. They all know I’m not into the party scene. Instead, I get on my bike and open her up, the steamy air whipping past my face. I ride balls-out, hitting the road fast and hard, the wind in my ears and the dark around me making it seem like I’m the last wolf in the world. I have an island and a house not too far from where this Poppy has been working. I’ll spend the night there, and then I’ll be ready and waiting for her in the morning.

By then I’ll have a plan worked out. It’s gotta look natural though. I could take a tire iron to her boat, but that might just put her back up seeing as how she’s obviously got a curious streak wider than the goddamned bayou. A boat crash might just do the trick, however. I can fix it, so she rams into me, or I ram into her, and that ought to get the ball rolling in the scaring-her-off department.

I’d head out into the bayou and spend the night alone. I love my brothers, but I like my space too, and that makes the bayou the perfect territory for me. Out there it’s just me, doing my thing, and no that’s not code for a rapid descent into alcoholism. I like hunting, fishing, and staring up at the stars. Inside my place, which is a century-old plantation house, I’ve got about a million books and a big-ass puzzle that’s been tormenting me for the last two weeks. Fucker has about a million pieces. Puzzles weren’t on your list of top ten things werewolves do with their spare time? I like to surprise.

And after a little alone time in the bayou, I’ll be right on hand to intercept Ms. Nosy Scientist, Poppy Burkhart-Jones.

She’ll never know what hit her.