HIGH MOON

KATI WILDE

CONTENTS

High Moon

1.  Ethan

2.  Makena

3.  Ethan

4.  Ethan

5.  Makena

6.  Ethan

7.  Makena

8.  Makena

9.  Ethan

10.  Ethan

11.  Makena

12.  Ethan

13.  Makena

14.  Makena

15.  Ethan

16.  Makena

17.  Makena

18.  Ethan

19.  Makena

20.  Ethan

21.  Makena

22.  Ethan

23.  Makena

24.  Ethan

25.  Makena

26.  Epilogue

Teacher’s Pet Wolf

Beauty In Spring

Newsletter

Also by Kati Wilde

HIGH MOON

Her mama always warned her not to feed stray wolves…

Running a ranch is hard enough, so Makena Laine doesn’t need any complications in her life. But the development company that’s determined to take her land isn’t giving her much choice. They’ve run off her help, pulled down her fences…and she’s afraid they’ve only just begun.

So when she stops alongside the road to assist a cowboy with a broken-down truck, she isn’t looking for more trouble, no matter how gorgeous that trouble is. Ethan Grimmson is bigger than any man has a right to be, doesn’t say much, and—if she’s honest—he’s also a bit scary. Yet considering that she’s in danger of losing her ranch…maybe scary is exactly what she needs.

If so, then scary is exactly what she’s going to get—in the form of a giant werewolf. Because Ethan’s got teeth and claws, and he’s been drifting a long time, hunting the murderers who killed his family—until an irresistible scent drags him straight to Makena’s ranch. Eventually, he’ll have to rip out his heart and leave her behind; but for now, he’ll protect her from the vultures circling her land. Except the threat stalking them is bigger than either could have imagined, and is leading to a showdown that might destroy them both…

Please note: This book contains explicit love scenes, plenty of swearing, and a dirty-talking cowboy whose response to everything might as well be “The better to eat you with, my dear.” There’s also a little paranormal violence and gore, but no real cows or rabbits or werewolves were harmed in the making of this novel.

1

ETHAN

BECAUSE I’M A MANGY COWARD, I roll up the windows in my truck about ten miles south of Fortune City, Idaho. Considering that those windows serve as the only air conditioning in my ancient F-150, pretty soon it’s hot as hell inside the cab and I’m stewing in my own sweat. But I’ve spent too damn long searching for answers to get sidetracked by whatever might come blowing in on the wind.

In and out. That’s how this is going to go. I’ll stop in Fortune City for a day, maybe two. I’ll ask the questions I need to ask. Then I’ll get the hell out of town.

And if I catch a whiff of the scent that’s haunted me for three fucking years—which is the last time I drove through this town with my windows rolled down—I’ll ignore it. I won’t go looking for the source.

That’s the plan, anyway. But the second my boots hit gravel in the parking lot of the Ponderosa Motel, I breathe in deep. I tell myself that testing the air is just instinct—that it’s simply a way of taking in my surroundings, the same way humans do. Anyone who gets out of a vehicle somewhere new, they quickly look around and listen. As wolfkin, I look, listen…and sniff.

But if I’m honest, I’m not just getting my bearings. I’m searching for one scent in particular.

And there it is. Barely detectable, like a tiny faded thread in Fortune City’s tapestry of odors. But faint as it is, instantly all my senses are on high alert and my blood runs hot. It arouses everything inside me, not just my cock—though that sure as fuck gets excited, too. That elusive fragrance entices me, draws me in, and without even thinking about it I inhale another lungful of air, searching for another thread, turning my head and trying to find a breeze, anything that’ll carry that incredible scent to me again. Then I realize what I’m doing and start breathing through my mouth.

I never should have come to this goddamn town.

AT THE PONDEROSA MOTEL, the rooms are as good as the money you pay to stay in them—which isn’t much. But the price suits my wallet, and even though the odors from twenty different asses linger in the room…well, continuing to breathe through my mouth while I’m in Fortune City suits me for plenty of reasons.

A sign in the motel office informs me they aren’t responsible for valuables left in the rooms. Nothing I own could be considered valuable, so after showering away the sweat and changing into a clean shirt, I leave my bag on the bed and head out on foot. Maybe all my worldly possessions will be gone when I get back. It wouldn’t be the first time everything I own has been stolen. But it’s never taken me more than an hour to track down the thieves…and a lot less time to persuade them to return my shit.

Tracking down whoever killed my family, though—that’s eleven years and counting. But hopefully my crap luck is about to change.

My destination sits only a few blocks away from the motel, on the town’s main street. In appearance, Fortune City looks like every other small town in Idaho’s panhandle. False fronts abound on the commercial buildings, facades that once gave the impression of prosperity, but now the missing clapboards and peeling paint just reveal age and neglect.

According to the address on the Fortune City Prospector’s website and the mapping app on my phone, the newspaper office sits between the city library and a beauty salon. The FOR LEASE sign in the front window tells another story. I peer through the plate-glass windows into the empty office beyond. If the newspaper moved to another location, it must have been a while ago. A thick layer of dust coats the bare concrete floor.

Well, hell. My luck really is pure shit sometimes. I won’t be getting any answers from in there. But this isn’t the end of the road. And a newspaper isn’t the only place to find information.

I turn toward the library. A display of children’s books sits in the window. The library’s hours of operation are printed out on a sheet of white paper and taped to the inside of the glass.

Monday & Wednesday 2pm-6pm

Saturday 10am-5pm

It’s Saturday, about five minutes before closing. I guess my luck isn’t all shit.

Or maybe it is. Because the moment I enter the library, that scent is there again, strong enough that even though I’m still breathing through my mouth, I can smell her. Taste her.

Fuck. Fists clenching, I stop just inside the hushed space, fighting the need to suck in her scent as deep as I can. Her. Whoever she is. She’s not here in the library. The scent is old, as if she was in the building sometime in the past few days or weeks, and in the closed-up library her natural perfume never really dissipated. Her fragrance is layered between a multitude of other scents but they all vanish beneath the sweetness of hers.

I don’t know who she is. I don’t know if she’s young or old. For all I know, a grandma might be lighting me up. I only know that she’s human.

And I know that she’s not the reason I’m here. She’s not one of the answers I need to find. No matter what my instincts are screaming. This unknown woman and my reaction to her are just distractions.

I focus on what’s here, instead. This place didn’t start out as a library, that’s clear enough. I’ve been in barber shops with more floor space. Most likely the city got the building for cheap. The hours of operation tell me there’s not much money being put into keeping it open, so it’s probably a labor of love by anyone willing to add books to the prominently displayed donation box and by volunteers giving their time.

To my right is a children’s section, complete with tiny chairs painted in bright primary colors. Three rows of bookcases about six deep take up the bulk of the space. To the left, behind a heavy wooden desk that’s of nicer quality than anything else in here—probably also donated—sits a blond woman in a flowery sundress. She’s around my age, maybe late twenties or early thirties, and scowling down at her phone while her thumbs fly over the screen.

She glances up distractedly…then glances up again, her eyes widening as her gaze travels the long road from my Timberlands to my Stetson. Interest fills her expression—the curious kind of interest, not the sexual kind. She’s pretty enough that, once upon a time, I might have tried to tease out the latter kind of interest. But this lady isn’t the source of that sweet fragrance, and after catching my first scent of her three years ago, I can’t muster up interest in other women. I tried to a couple of times in the months following that initial whiff. But my heart wasn’t in it…and neither was the rest of me. As if sex, which had always been pretty goddamn great before, suddenly wasn’t enough. All because I got a whiff of a woman who might be knitting booties for her tenth grandchild. Or who might be just a few years out of wearing booties herself.

And who probably wouldn’t be interested in a man who isn’t truly a man—or all of the baggage he comes with. Especially since that baggage means he won’t be sticking around.

The librarian’s brows rise in polite query. “May I help you?”

“I hope so.” Belatedly remembering my manners, I remove my hat. “The newspaper office was closed. Did they move to a new location?”

“Sure they did. To the World Wide Web.” She gestures to the ancient computer sitting atop a writing desk near the wall. “They closed up shop after the print edition went the way of the dodo.”

Closed up their printing press, maybe. But they didn’t close up shop completely. “They’re updating their site every week. They must still have at least one employee.”

“Me,” she replies, then shakes her head. “Though I’m not being paid, believe me. When Walt and Annie shut the place down, I asked them to hand over the reins to the Prospector’s website so the city can use it as a community newsletter. So if you want to know how the land use board voted regarding MDC’s request for a mining permit?” She points both thumbs at her chest. “I’m your girl. But Lois Lane, I’m not. You want to send in a birth announcement, an obituary? You want to share how the high school football team got crushed again? I’ll post it for you. But that’s all the website is nowadays.”

Shit. “What about their old articles—the news stories from before they started publishing them online? Are they archived somewhere?”

Not here in the library. There’s not a microfiche machine in sight and there’s no room for a paper archive.

“Sure,” she answers easily. “In the basement at city hall. You have to make an appointment to access them. It usually only takes about two weeks for a request to be approved.”

“Weeks?” I don’t dare wait around that long. Not in this town.

She shrugs. “The city’s short staffed. Obviously,” she adds with a significant glance around us. “I’m not only a terrible journalist, but also the under-appreciated mayor of our fair little town, and its only volunteer librarian. And that’s all in my spare time. So scheduling in the hours to unearth articles in storage? That’ll take a few weeks.”

Jaw clenched in frustration, I consider my options. I’ve already paid for the motel room. So I’ll stay in Fortune City overnight, visit one of the taverns I saw on my way in, and find someone with a big mouth. It’s a small town. Everyone probably knows everyone else’s business, so no doubt I’ll learn something. Maybe enough to tell me whether it’s worth putting in a request for access to those archives and coming back in two weeks.

“Or you could ask me,” the librarian says. A touch of amusement has slipped into her voice. With her bright gaze on my face, she leans back in her chair. “If there’s one thing I’m familiar with, it’s the history of this town. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

Yeah, I am. I’m looking for something new.

I’ve been at this a long time. Whoever murdered my family didn’t leave any evidence except their bodies. Even the bullets that killed them were gone. Dug right out of flesh and bone.

The cops figured that was so the ballistics couldn’t tie the bullets to a specific gun. But I know that isn’t the answer, because typical lead bullets can’t even harm one of the wolfkin, let alone kill a family of them. So whoever shot those bullets was hiding something else—a weapon that can destroy the kin.

And silver can hurt us, sure. Just like all the human legends claim. We don’t heal as quickly when we’re injured with a silver blade or shot with a silver-laced bullet. But even with silver bullets, we don’t die if we’re shot in the chest or the gut, which is where my parents and older brother were shot.

Yet they did die. And they didn’t die in their warrior forms, though suffering any kind of serious injury means you have to fight damn hard not to transform. Instead they died like any human would…and while they were dying, I was fighting in a desert half a fucking world away instead of fighting at their sides. By the time I got back to the States, not a trace remained of their murderer’s scent. So I’ve been trying to track the fucker down by looking for similar deaths, and looking for other murders where the bullets were removed.

I’ve found enough to know that someone—or maybe more than one person—has been hunting wolfkin and bearkin. But it’s a damn long process. Most law enforcement agencies don’t go around offering up information like “someone dug the bullets out of the wounds” to the general public, so I’ve asked about a whole lot of gun-related deaths to find the few that involved murdering the kin. And this is a gun-happy nation, so there are a lot of gun-related deaths to sift through.

But in eleven years, I haven’t gotten much further than discovering a few facts: The murderers dig out the bullets—maybe to hide what kind of bullets they are, maybe to reuse them—and whoever the fuckers are, they don’t leave much of a scent, if any. I’ve visited enough crime scenes that I ought to have picked up some scent linking them all. But there’s not one.

So now I’m trying a different approach. Because it just doesn’t make any sense that one person—or even a team of people, whether human or kin—could take out wolfkin and bearkin warriors the way they have, not without sustaining losses. It doesn’t make any sense that the kin haven’t killed any of their attackers.

Except that maybe the kin have killed some. If so, identifying that person might lead me to his associates. And I wouldn’t be looking for injuries like a gunshot wound. No, if a wolfkin or a bearkin warrior fought back, the injuries on the body would look a lot different…if there was anything of a body left to find.

But years of doing this have taught me that most of those bodies are attached to families, friends—and most of the dead aren’t wolfkin. So going around and asking about people who’ve been mauled to death requires me to tread carefully.

So I put on bit of charm—or the nearest thing to charm that a gruff fucker like me can manage—and reply, “I’m hoping to do a little research, ma’am.”

“Research?” Her lips purse slightly, and her gaze sweeps my length again. Maybe trying to see something academic behind two days’ growth of stubble on my jaw, the thick calluses on my hands, and the Hanes T-shirt that’s seen better, whiter days. “Are you a writer, then?”

When I’m not talking with law enforcement, that’s always the best story to go with. “I am.”

“Really?” Her interest sharpens again. “Fiction or nonfiction?”

“Fiction.” I’m spinning a hell of a tale right now.

“Published?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, if you finish a novel that features Fortune City and helps put our little town on anyone’s map, we’ll be happy to put your book in our library. I’m sure someone will buy and donate a copy.” With a grin, she leans forward. “So what are you researching?”

“Just the usual things that any writer is interested in,” I say easily. “Unexplained deaths, unsolved murders, local legends—especially any stories that involve wildlife.”

She snorts a little. “Are you searching for Bigfoot?”

I’m pretty sure the kin are behind that legend. In our warrior forms, we’re huge and covered in fur. We also walk upright, spend plenty of time in forests, and do our goddamn best to hide from humans.

“Nothing supernatural. I’m hoping to make it more true-to-life,” I tell her. From my back pocket, I pull out a folded printout of an article from the Statesman. “This story here is what sparked my interest. The Boise paper has a brief mention of an incident that occurred here eleven years ago, and I was hoping there’s more information in the local paper.”

Because the Statesman’s article only filled a couple of inches in print. Two people were dead, and authorities were searching for the animal or animals believed responsible. And that was about it.

“Eleven years ago?” Though her voice is still light and friendly, her smile seems to have frozen. The amusement vanishes from her expression as she takes the paper and scans the first lines. “What were you hoping I could tell you?”

Shit. Just that quick, I’ve lost her. Either she’s related to the deceased couple, or she’s close to someone who is—and despite her question, I’ve got a feeling that she’s not going to tell me a damn thing. But I didn’t come this far to back off now. “It says that Mikael and Halima Laine were mauled by a bear just outside of Fortune City. They assume it was a black bear, but black bears don’t usually attack humans; most of the time, they’ll run away. There’s no record of any black bear killing two people at once, so I was hoping to find out more about the circumstances. And I was wondering if they found the bear, or if they discovered any explanation for its aggressive behavior.”

I deliberately steer away from the people killed and toward the bear, hoping it’ll bring her back in. But her smile remains fixed and her tone frosty as she tells me, “Outside of Fortune City? That’s outside my sphere of knowledge, I’m afraid.” Briskly she stands. “And look at the time. It’s after five, so I’ve got to lock up and get going.”

“All right.” I can take a hint. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

“No problem. Monday morning, you can apply for access to the archives at city hall. Or if you’re in a rush, you could always contact the county sheriff’s office. Someone there might be able to tell you more about that bear.”

Somehow, I get the feeling that won’t be the case. That she’s only sending me that direction because she knows the sheriff won’t give me any more than I got here. But no matter. I’ve still got taverns and loose lips to try.

And one more question now. “What about the little girl? Was she hurt, too?”

“Little girl?” The perplexed frown she gives me appears genuine. “What little girl?”

“The one mentioned in that article. It says the couple left behind a young daughter.” The news item from the Boise paper doesn’t give her name—I’m guessing because she’s a minor.

I don’t intend to talk to the girl. Asking a kid how her parents were killed? I’m not that much of an asshole. But maybe she’s got family who took her in. Someone who’s more willing to talk than this woman is.

“I don’t know anything about that.” Her steady gaze holds mine. “And I don’t know any little girl.”

She’s lying. But aside from turning into a giant werewolf and scaring the shit out of her, I don’t see any way to persuade her to talk. So I thank her again, slip my hat back on, step out into the glare of the sun.

And I don’t even have to draw a breath. The scent wraps around me, strong and fresh. As if she walked past the library while I was inside.

Or drove past it. Maybe in one of the vehicles parked along the street now. Without a breeze, I can’t tell which direction she’s in. The odor’s no longer a faint thread in the hot afternoon air, but a thick rope made up of her own fragrance and woven through with all the other scents she carries with her—coffee and coconut oil, horses and cattle, golden hay and green grass….and frustration, anger.

She’s good and pissed. Whoever this woman is, I’ve got a feeling someone’s about to catch some serious shit from her.

I’d like to see that. And to be there if she needs someone to have her back. It’d be a simple thing to find her. Just let that rope of scent pull me in.

But I can’t, goddamn it. I can’t. Because my instincts are telling me that once I’m pulled in, I’ll be wrapped up tight. My instincts also say that’s all right, that it’s exactly where I should be. But my head and my heart don’t agree, because my family deserves more than that. They deserve more than me basking in her scent like I am now. They deserve more than me thinking about finding her, seeing her, tasting her. I’ve got to track down their murderers first. I’ve got to see justice done.

The hard lump I’ve got in my throat and the harder cock I’ve got in my jeans aren’t any good for sitting around in taverns, though. But it’s only early evening, so I’ve got all night to talk up the locals. And if she is in town, filling the air with her scent, making it damn near impossible to resist hunting her down…then I probably ought to be anywhere else.

Breathing through my mouth, I head for my truck. I leave the windows rolled up as I drive out of town. Hiding from that scent. Not so much a proud warrior now, not one of powerful wolfkin, but a weakling too scared to meet a human woman who poses as much danger to me as a flea.

I’m chasing after murderers who managed to kill kin even stronger than I am, yet not once in eleven years have I worried what might happen when I locate them. Instead I dream of ripping out their throats, tearing them apart with my claws. Yet this woman sends me running the other way. It’s fucking ridiculous.

Yet even knowing that, I keep driving. A few hours spent in the mountains and wearing my other skin will clear my head. Then I’ll come back, buy a few rounds of drinks, find out what I need to know from whoever’s willing to talk, and hightail it out of Fortune City first thing tomorrow.

In and out. That’s still the plan. There’s nothing that can keep me here.

No matter how damn good she smells.

2

MAKENA

KYLE MCKINLEY WAS the first boy I ever kissed. He was also the first boy I ever wanted to strangle. He probably won’t be the last but—considering that he’s now the local sheriff—the satisfaction of choking him would be more trouble than it’s worth. I’ve got too much work waiting for me at home to waste time sitting in the county jail.

But I still picture my fingers wrapped around his beefy neck as he says, “Without any solid evidence, my hands are tied. And you know if there was a damn thing I could do about it, Makena, I would. As it is, MDC is threatening to slap the county with a harassment suit.”

I gape at him. “Are you serious?”

If anyone deserves to be charged with harassment, it’s Mercoire Development Corp. Hell, if I could afford a lawyer, I’d look into it. Ever since the company set its sights on my land, not a day goes by that my phone doesn’t ring and someone’s on the other end asking me to consider selling. Not a day goes by without receiving another registered letter with a new offer, and the amount keeps getting bigger.

All that would be easy enough to ignore. But now MDC is running off my employees. And although I can’t prove it—yet—they’ve been trashing my fences. We haven’t had any animals go wandering off into the river or the hills behind my spread, because every morning we move the herd to graze a new part of the pasture, and each time we quickly discovered the damage. So we haven’t lost any head—yet—but repairing high-tensile wire fencing isn’t cheap. Given the kind of operation I’m running, promising grass-fed beef raised in a stress-free environment, any suggestion that things aren’t going smoothly can put off paying customers. And my ranch can’t take much hurt. My bank account sure as hell can’t take much hurt, either. Yet MDC doesn’t seem to be letting up. Instead they’re digging in.

Now Kyle holds my gaze and solemnly swears, “We’re on your side, Makena. We’ll keep an eye out. If we find anything solid, we’ll do everything we can to get these guys off your back.”

I know he will. Kyle was a lousy kisser, but he’s a good sheriff. And he’s already been to MDC’s office out at their construction site several times on my behalf. I guess that’s why he’s about to be hit with a harassment suit.

Despite his assurances, my anger hasn’t lessened any as I slam out of the county building. If anything, it’s hotter, because now I’m not the only one getting fucked by MDC. My friends are, too.

Except for one. And when I texted Carrie last night, agreeing to meet for a drink at the Silver Dollar, I’d been looking forward to a break away from the ranch. That was before my last remaining employee said he was leaving. Now I ought to get back home, but I can’t blow her off. Carrie would understand if I did, and she’d forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive myself so easily.

And, hell. I can still use that break. Not to mention a drink.

So instead of heading toward my truck, I skip down the stairs to the sidewalk and hang a right on Main. It’s about fifteen minutes past five but the sun is still glaring down, heat shimmering off the concrete. On blistering days like these, I wish I could prance around in sandals and a sundress instead of cowboy boots and sturdy jeans. But my tank top is the only concession to the hot weather, because I’m not risking my toes beneath a steer’s hoof, and I prefer to have horse hair clinging to denim rather than clinging to my bare, sweaty skin.

From the outside, the only indication of life coming from the Silver Dollar is a neon beer sign shining through a small, dingy window. I suppose it’s happy hour, but Fortune City isn’t really a ‘city’ in anything but name—and it definitely isn’t the kind of town where professionals congregate after work. Instead the main street is a long stretch of highway that the town grew up around during a mining boom, way back in the day. It’s not even a one-stoplight town; there’s no stoplight at all. Most people drive straight through, but for those who live here, it’s got everything anyone needs—a doctor’s office, a lawyer’s office, a salon, a few churches, and a few more bars. A small, overpriced grocery shares a block with a hardware store. The high school and the elementary school butt up right against each other, but the official football field and track is a mile down the road, because the field next to the school is big enough to practice in but not big enough to host a game.

Inside the tavern, the lighting’s dim and the air’s cool. A few regulars sit at the bar, mostly men I’ve known by sight or by name my entire life. Or almost my entire life. I was three years old when my mom and dad bought Riverbend Ranch, and that was twenty-five years ago. You’d think a quarter century would be long enough to live in a town and not be considered an outsider, but to some of the people here, I still am. Not to anyone I went to school with, because our class size was so small that by the time we graduated, we knew each other so well they could have all been my brothers and sisters. But from some of the other townspeople, yeah—I still get the side-eye.

I guess you might say that girls with Norwegian daddies and French-Somalian mommies are a little rare around these parts. Especially if that girl had a daddy and mommy who were brutally killed eleven years ago in what the local investigators concluded was a bear mauling. Especially if that girl insisted that it couldn’t have been a bear, because bears don’t have conversations with people before killing them. Especially if she’s been considered a little bit traumatized and touched in the head ever since her parents died.

But I say, fuck ’em all. Fuck anyone who still looks at me as if I don’t belong. Fuck anyone who thinks I’m crazy. I know who I am.

And I know who I’m not. His weatherbeaten face a collection of wrinkles, Sam Rudder tips his drink in my direction as I head to the booth where Carrie’s waiting. I offer a wave in return. The Rudder place sat just up the river from my family’s property until two years ago, when Sam sold the acreage to MDC for a tidy sum—far more than the place was worth. Afterward, he bought a house in town and he’s been drinking through the rest of the money ever since.

As much as I hate MDC, I can’t blame Sam for selling. Earning a living on this land can be exhausting, heartbreaking. And though a lot of people don’t want to admit it, this town is hanging on by its fingernails. About a half century ago, the mining operations in the region shut down. Then ten years ago, the lumber mill closed. Most of the remaining jobs in the town went with it.

So did all four of Sam Rudder’s kids. Not one of them wanted to stay and try scratching out a living on his farm, so they moved on. And after Sam’s wife passed, I guess he didn’t want to keep scratching either, and decided to take life easy.

But that’s not who I am. I never take it easy. I’ll keep scratching even after my fingertips are raw and bloody down to the bone.

Right now, my fingernails are only a bit ragged. So MDC has a long way to go.

Carrie’s eyebrows shoot high when she gets a look at my face. “You look like you’ve been chewing iron spikes.”

“Just chewing Kyle’s balls,” I say as she rises from her seat, wearing exactly the kind of colorful and flirty sundress I envy. I used to envy more—the shiny blond hair that a comb slides through like a hot knife through butter, her petite height that doesn’t tower over most of the men we know, her generous boobs and curvy hips—but somewhere around high school, maybe even somewhere around the moment I realized how much I resembled my mother, I grew out of my awkwardness and learned to appreciate my height. I began to appreciate the black curls that spring and twist instead of lying flat. I even began appreciating my little boobs and lean build, because they reflected all the hours and hard work I put into the ranch. I burn calories like a furnace, so the only plump part of my body is my lips—and there’s no way I’m complaining about those.

And the envy has never been one-sided. Carrie has sighed over my lips and hair the same way I’m sighing over her cute dress now. So I figure that’s just the way it is. Something else always looks easier, looks better—until you get that thing you’re envying. Then you realize what you had was perfectly fine.

“You’re just trying to make me jealous,” she says blithely. Carrie was the second girl to kiss Kyle McKinley. Probably the first to get anywhere near his balls. And now she’s married to him. “But I know for a fact that if you’d really been chewing them, you’d still be picking hair out of your teeth.”

I snort out a laugh and drop into the opposite side of the booth, where she has a bottle of beer waiting for me. The lacquered tabletop is scarred from decades of use. The benches used to be padded, but when Larry Wilks took over the place a few years ago, he ripped out the peeling vinyl upholstery, replaced it with hardwood seats, and told his customers to get accustomed to discomfort.

“So why’d you end up talking to Kyle?” she asks, bringing her wineglass to her lips. “Trouble again with the fences?”

I shake my head. “Mercoire Development got to Julio.”

Her blue eyes widen. “They offered him a job? And he went?”

Like two of my other ranch hands did. Steve was offered a foreman’s position at their new construction site and a hefty bonus. But, hell. Who can blame him, either? He’s got a family to feed, two little girls and a newborn baby boy. Of course he jumped at the opportunity.

I hired a new kid after Steve quit—and before MDC really started applying the heavy pressure. And, whaddya know, pretty soon that kid had a job offer from MDC, too.

That was my first clue the development company wasn’t going to play nice. Instead they were going to push as hard as they could to get what they wanted.

I didn’t think they’d get to Julio, though. He’s been with us almost ten years. And he loves the ranch as much as I do.

So MDC didn’t go after his wallet. Instead they went after his family. The guy running the show at MDC, a dead-eyed dickwad named Luc Fauconnier, stopped Julio for a quick, friendly chat at the feed store yesterday. Asked Julio how he was doing, then Fauconnier said he’d recently had the pleasure of meeting Julio’s sister and her children. He even had a picture of them to show Julio.

And that fucker was damn slick. Julio got his message loud and clear, though Fauconnier never uttered a single threat.

That’s what Kyle told me today, after I went in to make a complaint. Since nothing overt happened, and Fauconnier’s manner had been so friendly, there was nothing to pin on him.

But Julio knows. Kyle knows.

Now Carrie does, too, when I lay it out for her. Disbelief and anger swirl into a thunderstorm on her face. “Those assholes. Julio’s sister is in Boise, right? And Fauconnier just happened to run into her? No way.”

I raise my eyebrows in silent agreement and take a swig of my beer.

Regret joins the storm in her eyes. “I wish I hadn’t urged my folks to take the offer, too.”

Because they also sold to MDC, the last parcel of land around my spread to go. But who could have known? MDC talked a good game, promised jobs and all kinds of shit when they moved in. The mining’s not coming back, the mill’s not coming back, so both the city and the county are looking at bringing in tourists to the area, taking advantage of our proximity to Coeur d’Alene and a handful of ski resorts. MDC swooped in with the same vision, talking about a big lodge and a golf course—and Carrie, who practically runs the town from the mayor’s office, was among those who were excited about the development.

Hell, everyone was. Even I thought it sounded like a great idea. And if MDC comes through, it’ll be a heck of a boon to the people around here. They’ve got enough land to make it happen.

So I don’t know why they’re still going after mine. They probably thought I’d take the money and run. Maybe my refusal to fall in line pissed them off. Maybe they’re just greedy. Who knows.

Carrie’s troubled gaze searches my face. “Do you think they’d have actually done anything to Julio’s sister?”

I shrug. Because the truth is, I don’t know that, either. A few months ago, I’d have laughed off the question. Running people off their land is some Old West, cowboys-and-robber-barons shit. But then they started ripping my fences out of the ground and now they’ve scared off a loyal ranch hand. So I don’t know how far it’ll go. I’d like to think that Fauconnier and his cohorts, whoever they are, wouldn’t actually harm a human being. And if they did, I’d like to think they wouldn’t get away with it.

But that’s not the world we live in. Big business smashes the little guy all the time. I wish it wasn’t true. But it is.

“What about Jonas?” she asks. “Have they approached him?”

My uncle—and the man who raised me after my parents were killed. “No,” I tell her. “He’s worried, though.”

Surprise rounds her lips. Jonas is about as easygoing as a man can be. Not lazy, though. Not a bit. He works as hard as I do, but when he runs into a problem, he doesn’t get upset. He just straightens his shoulders and continues forward. The only time his blood gets boiling is…well, I haven’t really seen it boil. Not in my lifetime.

Carrie’s shock melts into disbelief. “He actually said he’s worried?”

I laugh at that. “No. Just little things he does that tell me.”

Like cleaning the rifles regularly. Like deciding that he’s going to start camping out in the hills overlooking the pasture, so that he can see anyone trying to sneak onto the land.

“And you’re worried, too?”

I’m about to say “No,” but the glance she gives to the fingers of my right hand stops me. Because I’m clinking my rings against the side of the beer bottle—a nervous, fidgety gesture that isn’t at all like me.

Except I’m not nervous. I’m angry. And frustrated. But maybe there’s a little part of me that is freaked out by all of this, because Julio wouldn’t have left if he thought Fauconnier’s threats were just hot air. Maybe a little part of me is afraid that putting up a fight will end up hurting everyone I love.

So maybe a part of me wonders if I should take the money and run…but there isn’t anywhere I want to run to. The ranch is my home. It’s where my parents’ blood was spilled on the ground, and my sweat and labor have soaked into the land. So if I have anything to say about it, it’ll remain my home until I’m old and gray.

My parents never got that chance. And glancing down, seeing those silver rings reminds me of that. They’re my mom and dad’s wedding bands. After they died, I began wearing them. But my hands are larger than my mother’s and smaller than my father’s, so I wear hers on my pinkie and his on my thumb.

They didn’t have a long time together. I’m all that’s left of their love and their marriage. Me, these rings, and the home they built on the ranch.

So I’m staying.

“I’m just itching to punch Fauconnier in his smug, stupid face,” I finally answer her.

“I don’t blame you. What did Jonas say when Julio left?”

“Jonas doesn’t know.” I grimace. “He headed out first thing this morning to pick up those two new horses in Billings. So I haven’t told him yet.”

Because my uncle would only worry, and there’s not a thing he can do about the situation until he gets back tomorrow evening. Hell, there’s nothing he can do after he gets back, either. Julio’s gone. So the only thing to do is to hire someone new…and hope MDC doesn’t chase them away.

Or worse.

With a heavy sigh, I lift my beer. “So that’s all depressing. How are things with you?” I ask, and my stomach lurches when Carrie hesitates, as if trying to decide how to respond. She only does that when there’s bad news. “Oh god. What is it? Are you okay? Is everything with Kyle okay?”

“I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s just…some guy came into the library asking about your parents. So I thought I should warn you.”

“My parents?” I fight the weird, sick feeling that fills my chest. The feeling that rises every time someone mentions them unexpectedly. The feeling that’s partly defensive, ready to protect them and their memory…and also sick with grief because nothing can protect them. The worst has been done. “What did he want to know?”

“He said he was doing research. For a book or something. He was asking about the bears. And whether anyone ever figured out why it happened.” Her face has an apology written all over it, as if she’s sorry for even mentioning this.

But already that sick feeling is easing. “He’s a writer?”

Like my dad was.

Carrie nods.

“Well, that’s okay.” I blow out a short breath that releases the remainder of my tension, then grin. “Hell, if he’s offering cash for interviews, maybe I’ll take him up on it.”

“He didn’t look like he has a lot of cash to offer,” she says dryly.

“Of course he doesn’t. He’s a writer.” My dad’s work never brought a penny home with his writing, either. Instead he was in perpetual research mode. God, I miss him. Absently rubbing his silver ring with my opposite thumb, I ask her, “Did you give him my number?”

“I ran him off. Told him to request access to the Spectator’s archives.”

I laugh. The city has rules forbidding unsupervised access to historical records. And since Carrie’s basically the city’s only employee, she has to clear out a good chunk of time in her schedule before she can spend hours watching over someone while they search through old property deeds—or any other documents. “What kind of timeline did you give him?”

“About two weeks.”

Wow. “So you were being nice to him even as you ran him off?”

“Well, I told him it would be two weeks before I learned what he was looking for.”

Info about my parents. “I don’t mind if someone asks,” I tell her. “Especially if they end up finding answers. I wish someone could finally explain what happened to them.”

Solemnly she nods. Then says, “That someone probably won’t be a writer who’s chasing Bigfoot.”

A soft laugh of agreement escapes me. “No, probably not,” I tell her, and then I’m done talking about me. “Anyway. How are things?”

“Work? Awesome. Our new house? Awesome. The superfast connection we just had installed and all of the streaming videos out there online? Extra awesome.” She ticks them off on her manicured fingers. “The rest of the world, especially the part of it on social media? A total shit show.”

I grin. Carrie’s politics don’t stop at the city limits. “So you’re still fighting the good fight?”

“Oh god,” she moans and theatrically flops forward onto the table, looking up at me with a pained expression. “People are so stupid.”

I laugh, because, yeah—true.

“It’s exhausting,” she continues dramatically. “I feel like I’m shouting all the time. And I just want to get away from it, but every time I do, I’m terrified I’ll miss something important.”

If that’s true, then I’ve been missing important stuff for years. I have a smartphone—who doesn’t anymore?—and it’s handy when I need it. But reception is spotty out on the ranch, and putting in a faster internet connection at home means tying into the utility line on the main road, which I’d have to pay for. So I’ve got a Facebook account and a website, because they bring in more business, but I don’t spend a lot of time on them. Most of my news comes from public radio and from Carrie’s texts. From what she tells me, maybe it’s for the best. Right now I’ve got enough of my own rage to deal with.

Still, between working for the city and all that crazy shit online, she’s got the best stories to share—and meeting up with her ends up being exactly the break I needed.

Dusk is falling when I finally load up into my truck and start home with my windows cranked down and the cool air blasting in. At the edge of town, I turn off the two-lane highway onto Mill Road, then it’s another ten miles of winding through the hills, following the path of the river, before I reach the county road that leads to my place. This route used to have a little more traffic, but after MDC bought up so much land, they put in a new access road off Mill. Some days I pass their big hauling trucks, but as night comes crawling in, it’s just a lonely, narrow stretch of asphalt.

Lonely until my headlights catch a flash of red up ahead—tail light reflectors, belonging to a vehicle pulled over to the side of the road. I slow down as I get closer. The hood’s propped up on an old green-and-white F-150. Clouds of steam billow out from the front. That’s gotta suck.

Through the dark and the steam, I can’t see much of the driver, except that he’s tall, has shoulders like a linebacker, and is wearing a Stetson. And I don’t recognize the truck, but despite the trouble with MDC, I’m not too worried. Fauconnier and the company boys drive around in shiny black SUVs like the henchmen they are, and this broken-down pickup is even older than mine.

The driver doesn’t step out to wave me down—but around here, you don’t need to. I’d no sooner drive by someone who needs help than I would kiss a rattlesnake.

Stopping alongside his truck, I lean over and call through the open window, “Need a hand, cowboy?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. My engine is so loud and my headlights are so bright, he has to know that I’ve stopped. Yet he stays stock still at the front of his truck, steam swirling around him and his hands braced on the frame above the radiator—where no one ought to be putting his hands or standing. Not as hot as that front end must be. And with night moving in, I don’t know what he can possibly see in that engine compartment, anyway. He doesn’t have a flashlight, and the moon is just a sliver in the sky.

But there’s enough light diffusing through the mist to see how he suddenly sways a bit. To see how his hands tighten on the frame—as if he’s stopping himself from falling.

As if he’s sick.

“Hey! Cowboy!” I fumble with my seatbelt, hoping he doesn’t keel over before I get out there. I’ve got muscle on me, hardened by years of working on the ranch, but he’s so damn big that if he goes down, I’m not sure I could haul him up again. “Are you okay?”

This time he heard me. He holds up a big hand, palm out, a clear signal to stay where I am.

A rough “I’m all right. I just need a second” follows.

Well, okay. Yet I still eye him warily, thinking he’s going to stumble over and puke into the ditch, because he doesn’t look too steady on his feet.

Shit. “Are you drunk?”

It wouldn’t be the first time some asshole got wasted and ended up out here in the middle of nowhere. If that’s the case, fuck him. Let him rot in the ditch with his busted truck. Better than him driving drunk and killing someone.

This time something like amusement deepens his reply. “I’m not drunk. Not high, either.”

And he seems to be moving all right now. Wiping those big hands on an oil-stained towel, he comes to my passenger side window, dips his head to look in. His hat brim shadows his face, except for his mouth and chin—and my mama always said the universe rewards us for good deeds. So my reward for being a good Samaritan must be the sight of his firm lips and angular jaw, though the nature of my appreciation for them probably doesn’t fall under the definition of ‘good Samaritan thoughts.’

Good girl or bad, though, I get the sense that whatever he expected to see in the cab of this truck, he’s struggling to take it in. Because he goes quiet. Just breathes deep, dragging in air through his nose as if he’s been drowning for a while instead of standing on the side of the road.

Or maybe not standing. Because he seems unsteady again. Then there go his hands, gripping the door as if he’s holding himself up.

I don’t smell alcohol. So this is something else. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m all right,” he says again, and his voice is a gravelly drawl. I catch a hint of glowing amber in the shadow beneath his hat—maybe my dash lights glinting off his eyes—before his head tilts down, the brim of his Stetson covering that golden gleam. “Thanks for stopping.”

That goes without saying. “Your radiator blew?”

“Just the hose.”

“Is it something duct tape can fix? If so, I’ve got you covered.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, indicating my truck bed, where a tool box is nestled up against the wheel well.

He shakes his head. “A little worse than that.”

“Well, it’s a heck of a walk back to town, and the auto shop closed two hours ago. Did you call anyone yet? Is someone on the way to pick you up?”

“I don’t have anyone to call.”

Awww. That’s sad. And it looks like my good deed isn’t done.

“Hop in, then.” Reaching over, I clear a space for him on the bench seat by dragging the leather gloves, denim jacket, and lead rope piled on the passenger’s side into the middle. “I live just up the road. I’ve got some animals to look in on before I can tow you back to town, but if you’re really lucky, you’ll find a hose that’ll fit your rig in our garage and we’ll get you fixed up tonight. I’m Makena,” I add in the brief moment before the overhead light comes on, and my breath catches.

Because after seeing his jaw and lips, I thought his looks might run toward pretty. But there’s nothing pretty here. His features are strong and rugged, with heavy brows shadowing deeply set, whiskey-brown eyes. High cheekbones form craggy cliffs over the hollows of his cheeks. If someone was being generous, they might say he was handsome, in the same rough and uncompromising way that the Bitterroot mountain range is beautiful.

But I’m not being generous. And handsome isn’t why my skin seems to tighten and the hair prickles at my nape. Because the mountains might be beautiful, but they’re deadly, too. Wild and dangerous. And I’ve got the sudden feeling that the man getting into my truck isn’t much different.

Despite that feeling, the shiver that races up my spine isn’t all unease. And maybe I could blame it on my fear of being in tight, enclosed spaces when he settles in, taking up more room than I anticipated. But both windows are down, so it’s probably not my claustrophobia kicking in. More likely it’s because my mama’s adage about good deeds being rewarded has gone flying out of my head, and instead I’m thinking of what else people say about good deeds: they never go unpunished. And this cowboy, he seems like a guy who could give a girl’s heart a good spanking. But only after he spanked a few other parts of her.

I don’t have time for that kind of trouble, though. “You got a name, cowboy?”

“Ethan,” he says gruffly, and when the overhead light snaps off, he seems uncomfortable all over. Or maybe he’s just…tense. His posture’s the same as any other man who ever sat in a pickup—elbow propped out the open window, fingers gripping the top of the frame, his opposite hand holding his hat on his thigh. Except he’s all but crushing the crown of his Stetson, and he’s staring straight ahead—as if he doesn’t want to look at me.

Weird. Because he didn’t hesitate before agreeing to come. He didn’t even grab the cell phone I can see clipped to his dashboard mount, or lock up his rig. He just climbed straight in with me. But his body language suggests he’s regretting that decision.

Uncertain, I ask him, “Do you need to lock up your truck before we go?”

Now he looks at me. Through the dark, the intense gold of his eyes seems to give off a deep amber glow. “No. If anyone tries to take anything, they’ll learn real quick not to mess with what’s mine.”

That reply shouldn’t send my heart racing. But it does, and I’m breathless, my fingers shaking a little as I grip the gearshift and put it into first. Handsome or not, dangerous or not, a stranger shouldn’t have this effect on me—especially one that I’ll soon see the tail end of. I’m just doing a good deed. That’s all. So I’ll see his truck patched up and send him on his way. Because that’s another thing my mama taught me.

Don’t ever take in a stray.

3

ETHAN

WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN, my older brother and I got our hands on some nitrous oxide. A lot of shit doesn’t affect the wolfkin—liquor just gives a warm buzz, no matter how much I drink. I’ve heard cocaine and heroin only offer a little jolt or a little dip. But laughing gas? A deep breath and even we got dizzy. Unless we were in our warrior forms. Then it didn’t have any effect.

I wish the same was true now. That I could just change into a big fucking werewolf and this dizzy high spinning through me would vanish. Smelling Makena all through town didn’t prepare me for meeting her in person. I sure as hell didn’t expect to almost keel over when I got a full-on whiff. Even the whippits didn’t hit me as hard as every single breath is hitting me now. But I don’t think transforming would make a damn bit of difference, because only an hour ago, I caught her scent while I was wearing my warrior’s skin and hunting through these hills. And even while I was in that form, that fragrance dragged me toward her, the same as it did while I was in Fortune City.

The rest, I blame on instinct overruling my head. Because that scent pulled so goddamn hard on me and I figured, What the hell. I’ll just go take a look and see who this woman is. I wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t touch her. I’d just match a face to the scent.

Now I’m sitting in her truck, with my dick as hard as fuck and with my brain battling every instinct to reach out and grab her, taste her, mount her.

And I’m gritting my teeth against the need to tell her that she shouldn’t be picking up strangers. I’m holding back the growl that rises when I tease out the other scents lingering in the cab—one from a human male, who’s been in here often enough that his odor is layered in deep. Plus two dogs, a male and a female. They’ve sat where I’m sitting now, likely with their heads out the window and their tongues lolling in the wind. She’s probably petted them, stroked their fur.

I’m jealous of two dogs.

She’s affecting me like I’ve never been affected before. Being protective? That’s in a wolfkin’s nature. Possessive? I never have been before.

I’ve never felt any of this before. She’s got every part of me feeling so damn good—from the sweet fragrance that fills my chest with every breath, to the lightheaded wonder that sitting beside her seems so right. As if this is where I’m meant to be. And I’m so fucking turned on, my cock is jammed up against my zipper like a steel pole.

But this isn’t where I’m meant to be. I’m meant to be somewhere else: hunting down the butchers who killed my family. I’m meant to be tearing out the throats of their murderers.

That’s not going to happen in the next few hours, though. So maybe I’ll wallow in this feeling for a bit.

And wallow in the sight of her, too. Makena.

I’d wallow in her scent no matter what she looked like, but she’s a feast for the eyes, too. Legs for days, tight stomach, small tits. Her arms are sleekly muscled, and her curling black hair forms a glorious halo around her head. Everything about her looks as beautiful and as wild and as free as this land.

And her voice, goddamn. Strong and bold, with a husky note that sets my dick on edge as she says, “So where were you headed before you broke down? There’s not much in the direction you were going.”

Telling Makena that her sweet scent was like a drug drawing me in this direction probably won’t go over so well. “I’m new to the town. So I thought I’d get a lay of the land.”

“So you’re staying in Fortune City?”

“Not long.” That can’t change. “I’m heading out tomorrow morning.”

“Where are you laying your head tonight?”

I sure as hell wouldn’t mind the space between her thighs. “The Ponderosa.”

Her face scrunches up.

No need to ask why. “It’s not so bad as long as you don’t sniff too close.”

“I’d recommend not getting close enough to actually smell anything.” She shudders. “I don’t know whether it’s better to close your eyes and pretend there’s nothing there, or to keep your eyes wide open so you don’t accidentally touch something that’ll never wash off.”

“I’m in favor of keeping my eyes open.” Pretending never did anyone any good.

“But seeing doesn’t change what’s on those sheets.”

“I’ve seen worse.” Not much worse.

“Hang around a while, maybe you’ll see better. Supposedly there’s a whole lot of fancy hotels coming in soon.” Something in her scent changes, a mix of unease and irritation that yanks every nerve in my body into high alert. Then she seems to shove whatever she’s thinking away, and glances at me with eyes as dark as midnight. “So where you from, Ethan?”

“Montana, originally.”

“Originally?” She latches onto that. “And since then?”

“Too many places to name. A lot of places not worth naming, either.”

Makena chuckles, like maybe she knows exactly the kind of places I’m talking about. Then she casts me another curious look. “So you’ve been drifting a while?”

“A good while.”

A knowing expression tilts her eyebrows. “Does that mean you’re running or searching?”

“Searching.” Hunting.

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but no one ever found anything in Fortune City.”

I found something. Unfortunately, I’m not staying. “Maybe I’ll be the first.”

She smiles faintly, as if what I said sounds nice but not very likely, then slows the truck as we approach a gravel driveway. I haven’t been paying any attention to our surroundings, I’ve been so focused on her. But now I see the painted wooden sign announcing that I’ve reached the Riverbend Ranch. A stacked split rail fence runs up to a two story farmhouse. In the distance, high-tensile fencing parcels out a large spread of pasture bordered by a swift-flowing river. Through the truck’s open window, I inhale a multitude of scents. Horses, cattle. More faintly, the dogs that were in the cab with her before—and the male human, too. A husband, father, brother? Impossible to tell just by smelling what he left on the wind.

Whoever the man is to Makena, he isn’t waiting for her at home. The windows in the house are dark. Inside, the two dogs are barking up a welcome. Up past the house stands a big barn, with the strong scent of horses and hay coming from it. The house, the barn, and all of the outbuildings seem in good repair. I’ve been in plenty of places where they aren’t. Sometimes it’s a lack of money, sometimes it’s a lack of effort. By the look of it, Makena’s been putting as much as she can of both into this ranch.

She pulls the truck into a large open carport that shares space with a livestock trailer and a tractor, then gestures to another outbuilding. “We’ll see if you can find what you need in my uncle’s shop,” she says, but heads in the opposite direction, toward the house. “Give me a second and I’ll open it up for you. I’ve got to let the dogs out before they explode.”

Her uncle. That must be the man I’m smelling. Not that it makes a damn bit of difference. I’ve got no claim on this woman.

Even if she’s already got a claim on me.

As soon as she opens the door to the house, the dogs tumble over themselves greeting her. Can’t blame ’em. I pretty much went tripping over my own feet when I first saw her, too. And I can’t swear to being too steady now.

Then the female gets a whiff of me. Her soft growl alerts Makena, whose gaze flicks toward me in surprise, as if she isn’t used to the dogs reacting that way to anyone. Scratching the female’s ears, she tells the dogs it’s all okay, to settle down—calling them Thelma and Alf.

She heads back my direction, the dogs at her heels. Both have their hackles up, growling and flitting around her legs like they’re trying to warn her away. But Makena keeps coming, frowning down at them as they draw near enough to me that their courage fades. Whining, Thelma all but crawls on her belly while staying by her mistress. Alf hangs back, trembling and snarling.

Makena looks down at Thelma in disbelief, her tone reassuring. “It’s all right, girl. This is Ethan.” Shaking her head, she says to me, “Usually they’re thrilled to meet anyone new. I don’t know what’s gotten into them.”

I do. Poor damn dogs. I go down on my heels, holding out my hand, locking my eyes on Thelma’s. “It’s all right, girl. C’mon.”

She scuttles forward, a mix of Golden Retriever and some other breed that broadened her face and gave her a bit more weight. She sniffs my hand before whimpering and rolling over, showing her belly. Sweet girl. I scratch her throat, then give her ears a good loving, aware of Makena watching us like she doesn’t know what she’s seeing. Then Alf—an old, mottled-brown hound—comes closer, tail between his legs, shaking all over. He shows his belly a second later and I give him a good scratch as a reward, letting him know he’s a good boy.

“They were worried I was here to cause trouble,” I say gruffly. “But we’re all friends now.”

“And now you’ll pay the price of being their friend,” she says dryly, because the moment I stop scratching Alf, Thelma pushes her head beneath my palm, looking for more pettings. “I hope you didn’t want to use that hand again.”

Now that I’ve met her, I’ll be using my hand a hell of a lot more often than I used to. But for now, I oblige both dogs for a few seconds, then send them off to find the trees they both desperately need after being cooped up in the house. Makena blinks in surprise as they run off, as if their obeying an order is as unusual as them growling at strangers, and gestures for me to follow her when I rise to my feet.

“Every time one of our vehicles dies, my uncle strips all of the parts that he might use again. And he had a Ford about the same year as yours, so maybe there’ll be a hose that’ll fit.” She unlocks the shop door, flips on the light. “Tools over there”—she waves to one side—“parts over here. You’ll be okay digging around, looking for it?”

Everything looks well organized. “I’ll manage.”

She nods. “I’ll be up at the barn, getting those animals tucked in. I shouldn’t be long.”

I watch her head off, all long legs and easy stride and sweet ass, before I pull my brain out of my dick and start searching for that hose. It takes me all of a minute before I’ve got my hands on it, then I spend a second debating whether to help her out in the barn. But some animals, especially horses, act up around me the first couple of times. I might do more harm than good.

Fuck, but I need to help her. Somehow. She’s done me a good turn here, offering up this radiator hose and her time. And I bet she won’t take a few bucks in exchange. She’d just wave it off, say something about being neighborly.

But I’m not feeling neighborly. I need to help her out before I go. And if it means sticking around for a few more hours, talking to her and listening to her laugh, learning more about who she is… I can’t.

Goddammit, I can’t. And this shit was exactly what I was afraid of. This tight pain in my chest, as if the very thought of leaving rips something out of me, this desperate search for any excuse to stay. But the longer I stay, the worse it’ll likely get.

Thelma comes trotting over, sticking her nose into my hand, whining softly. My throat’s feeling too raw to say much, so I crouch and give her a good rub. Alf joins in, both of them trying their best to lift my heart out of the shitter. Wolfkin aren’t real good at hiding what they’re feeling, because there’s no point in trying. You grow up around family who can smell what’s going on inside you, the same way these two dogs sense what’s going on inside me. Of course, unlike family, the dogs don’t have a clue why anyone feels like they do.

But I don’t have a clue why Makena is affecting me like this, either, so I’m in good company.

Since a dog’s answer to any worry is to play, soon enough Alf finds a grubby tennis ball and drops it at my feet. I oblige them by throwing it, then throwing it again—a mindless task that lets me take another, slower look around the place. Everything seems in good repair, but I don’t know of any rancher who doesn’t have a to-do list as long as their arm. A pallet of roof shingles sitting beside the barn gives me an idea of at least one of those items.

Makena emerges from the barn a few minutes later, grinning when she sees how the dogs have roped me into a game of fetch. “I hope they let you find that hose first!” she calls across the yard.

“I found it.” I head in her direction. “But I’ll tell you what—if this hose doesn’t do the trick and you end up towing me into town, I’ll come back tomorrow and get those new shingles up on your barn.”

She glances back at the pallet. “You don’t need to do that.”

Yeah, I do. “If not that, then something else. Because a tow back to town is a big owe.”

That pretty smile curves her lips, but the shake of her head dismisses my offer in the sweetest way possible. “It’s nothing. And if that hose fits, you won’t even need a tow. So let’s get you back to your truck and find out.”

My first thought is, Fuck my truck, but I don’t argue. I don’t say much at all as we load up in her rig—all of us. Thelma and Alf scramble up onto the seat between us and settle in, Alf with his head on my lap and gazing soulfully up at me, Thelma pushing her way in for another scratch around her ears.

Makena snorts a little laugh as she starts up her truck. “You want me to get them off you?”

“They’re all right.” They’d know if I wanted them off me.

And keeping my hands busy petting them means I’m not reaching for her, which is what I’m aching to do. We head down the driveway in silence, with Makena throwing a few more glances my way before she says, “I was just thinking: if the hose doesn’t fit, it’ll make more sense to tow your truck back here instead of all the way to town. You’d fix it yourself?”

“I would.” No point spending money paying someone else.

“It’d be easier to fix it at my place than in the motel parking lot. Not to mention, as of today I’ve got an empty bunkhouse that you could stay overnight in”—a worried note in her voice is gone as quickly as it came—“and it’s a hell of a lot cleaner than the Ponderosa is. In the morning you could take my truck into town to get the parts you need.”

Which all sounds as crazy as it is reasonable. She’s right that it’d be a lot easier. But she doesn’t know me from Jeffrey Dahmer. “How do you know I won’t take off in your rig?”

She shrugs. “I figure a man who offers to spend an afternoon on the roof of a barn to repay someone for a tow isn’t going to steal a truck without feeling obligated to pay for that, too. Plus the county sheriff is one of my best friends. If you took it, I’d probably get it back.”

I guess she’s got me there. Remembering that fleeting worry I heard, I ask, “Why is your bunkhouse empty?”

Her face tightens, that smile going flat. “Our only remaining ranch hand left to take care of his family.” She slants a look at me. “So if you’re looking for a job, we’re hiring. Room and board included.”

Every goddamn thing inside me rides up tight and hard. I want that job. Working with this woman, helping her day in and day out, sleeping in a bunkhouse just a few feet from her front door. And it wouldn’t be the first time I stopped for a few weeks—or a few months—to earn some cash and figure out the next steps I’ll take, looking for my family’s murderers. But I’ve got a feeling that if I stop here for any length of time, taking any steps away will be akin to ripping myself in half.

My voice deepens as I force a reply. “I’m heading out of town in the morning.”

Her expression doesn’t change. She continues looking out the windshield, gives a little nod. I can’t make sense of her quiet, “Probably safest for you that way,” and I don’t get a chance to ask as she pulls right up in front of my truck, so her headlights are shining into the grille. The dogs tag along at my heels as I get out, then settle at my feet when I stick my head under the hood. Makena holds a flashlight for me as I start in on the busted hose—though I don’t need the light. I can see in the dark just fine. Still, I don’t say a word to stop her. Having her so close is a fucking incredible experience. I’m not so lightheaded and dizzy now when I breathe her in. Her scent hits me as hard as it did from the first, but it’s as if I’m slowly adjusting to this new kind of air. Makena’s air. The stuff that she exhales, that her body perfumes…I’m taking it all in. And I can’t get enough of it. I want to bury my nose against her neck and between her thighs, and fill myself with her sweet fragrance.

Instead I keep my hands busy and my mouth shut. Makena’s quiet, maybe lost in her own thoughts or assuming I need to concentrate on the job in front of me. And all the while that she’s watching me work, her gaze locked on my hands, maybe it’s just my imagination—or wishful thinking—but tension rises thickly between us, and the silence begins feeling as heavy as the hot weight of my cock.

My voice holds the rough edge of a growl when I tighten the final clamp and ask, “Will you start her up?”

She slides into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbles to life, and Makena comes around the front again as I search for any obvious leaks. I won’t know for sure until the engine temperature rises again but so far, so good.

“This fix ought to get me back to town,” I tell her, but I’m thinking it could also get me back to her place, up to her room, and I could burn out the rest of the night deep inside her.

Maybe she reads in my eyes what I didn’t say. And maybe this is just wishful thinking, too, but I swear temptation and longing sweep across her features before she tears her gaze from mine and heads to the cab of my truck.

To get my phone, I realize when she comes back, her thumbs tapping across the screen. “I added my number to your contacts,” she says before handing me the device. “In case you don’t make it all the way back to town, now you’ve got someone to call.”

Just that easy, she’s offering to help me again. I’ve known a lot of people in my time—some good, some bad. Knowing that Makena is one of the good ones shouldn’t feel like a kick to my chest. But it does. So my voice is gruff when I tell her, “Thanks.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “It might not be much help if you break down again. There’s a lot of dead zones out here. So if you don’t want to risk that drive back to town tonight, the offer to stay at my place is still open. And you’d get breakfast in the morning.”

Breakfast? This isn’t wishful thinking. But I want to be real damn clear. “Makena,” I say and her name feels so right on my tongue. “Are you offering me more than a bed tonight?”

“No. Though I’ll admit that I’m tempted.” A smile wavers across her full lips before settling into a wry curve. “You push all my buttons. You’re built like a mountain, you’re good with your hands—and you rarely say more than five words at a time.”

Shit. I know it’s for the best that she’s saying no. Yet even as her last point drags a grin from me, an ache opens up in my chest. “And your dogs like me.”

“That, too. And you seem to like them, which is even better.” Her chin’s up, her bold gaze steady on mine. “But inviting a man back to the ranch—to my home—feels like more than a hookup. So I’ve never taken a guy home before. And I won’t start with someone who’s heading out of town tomorrow morning.”

Jealousy claws at my gut, which is stupid for plenty of reasons. She’s all but saying that none of those men meant a damn thing to her. And I’ve got no claim on Makena, no reason to resent anyone that ever touched her.

But that unfamiliar possessiveness takes hold of my mouth, anyway, because I need to know where I could have her. “Where do you take them, then?”

“Not the Ponderosa,” she says dryly. “Because the one time I did, I’m pretty sure I got fleas.”

I’d risk the fleas. But although asking her back to the motel might make a one-night stand easier for her, it sure as hell wouldn’t make anything easier for me. Taking Makena to bed would feel like more than a hookup no matter where I had her. Hell, just talking with her feels more meaningful than any sex I’ve ever had.

And the sensible thing to do here is to get away before I’m in too deep to get out again. But what’s raging inside me isn’t sensible. It’s howling against the thought of driving away from her.

But since I’ve got no other place to take her except the bed of my truck or the side of the road, there’s nothing to say except, “Fair enough.”

She nods and takes a step back, as if preparing to leave. “That offer of a bed in the bunkhouse and breakfast still stands, though, if you want to avoid those fleas.”

“I can’t. There’s some other business in town that I was supposed take care of tonight.” Asking around at the local bars, finding out about the Laines and that bear attack. But so Makena knows that I wouldn’t be turning her down if it wasn’t something important, I add, “It’s a family obligation. That’s also why I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“I see. Well, I don’t blame you for putting family first.” A touch of sadness softens her eyes—maybe because I’m going, maybe because of something regarding her own family, I don’t know. But the emotion’s gone as swiftly as it came. She squares her shoulders and says, “All right, then. It was good to meet you, Ethan. And maybe I’ll see you again someday.”

She turns and heads toward her truck—and it’s instinct that sends me after her. Instinct and whatever it is that started pulling me to her after that first scent. Nothing sensible involved. She’s walking away, so I’ve got to follow. It’s that simple.

I don’t get more than three steps before she tosses over her shoulder, “And if you ever make it back to Fortune City and want to try again, just send me a message letting me know where to meet you. I’ll make sure to put my kissing panties on.”

Her teasing me like that is akin to her tugging on a leash wrapped right around my cock—and not a single part of me fights to get free. Instead I just want her to drag me nearer, keep me with her.

“Makena.” I growl her name.

She pivots to face me, then continues walking backward toward her truck, her thumbs hooked in the pockets of her jeans and a little smile playing around her lips. She doesn’t seem at all surprised to see me closing in on her. And when her back hits the door of her truck she doesn’t open it. She just waits, looking calm and cool but I can smell the tension gripping her.

What that tension is from, I can’t tell. Maybe it’s because I’m so big and when I stop so close in front of her, there’s no hiding that. Maybe it’s because I’m no damn good at hiding what I feel, and I must appear to her like a ravenous man. And I am ravenous. But I’m also something more than a man, and I couldn’t bear seeing any fear in her eyes, so I struggle against the instinct to claim what’s mine.

But I also can’t let her go yet. Not without touching her at least once.

My heart thundering, I lower my head. I watch her face, giving her a chance to push at me, to turn away. “Are you wearing those kissing panties now?”

“I sure am,” she says huskily, then rises on her toes and meets me halfway.

I’m starving for her, and anticipation’s riding me so hard that my hands are shaking, but I know this might be the only taste I’ll have. So I take it slow, cupping her face and holding her still for the gentle brush of my lips over hers.

Merely inhaling her breath is intoxicating. And although my cock’s hard as steel, sex is the furthest thing from my mind as I tease her mouth with whisper-light kisses. Instead I’m simply drowning in the ecstasy of touching her.

Then her lips part at the first sweep of my tongue and it’s all over for me. Her scent was a goddamn miracle, but her taste. The slick heaven of her mouth, the fullness of her lips. I can’t get enough, and the soft moan of pleasure she makes in response shatters my control. With a rumbling growl, I lick deeper, devouring her sweetness and her heat with every thrust of my tongue. The thought passes through my head that I’ll never want to kiss any other lips but these, and something inside me twists up hot and hard and painful, because there won’t be any more kisses after this one. There can’t be.

I have to dig up the strength I need to pull away. A flush of arousal bronzes her cheeks. Her breath shudders through kiss-swollen lips as she looks up at me, her eyes glazed, as if she’s not seeing anything at all but is still lost in that kiss. As if it affected her as much as it did me.

But the tenderness that I’m feeling isn’t reflected in her eyes when her focus slowly sharpens. She hides the emotion so fast that I can’t be certain what it is, but it resembles…hurt. And although she conceals it, suddenly she’s looking everywhere but at me, and drawing away though there’s nowhere to go. The truck’s behind her, and I’m right up against the front of her, my hands still cupping her face.

In an agitated movement, she jerks her head to the side and out of my grip, as if she can’t stand me touching her anymore. “Okay, then. All right.” She’s all but babbling. “I’ll just go—”

“Makena.” It’s harder and gruffer than I intend, but the way she’s panicking and pulling away has turned my throat into a gristly ache. “What happened?”

She closes her eyes, her body going still. In a tight voice, she tells me, “You shouldn’t kiss like that.”

“Like what?” Fear grips my heart. Did I hurt her? I lost a bit of control when I kissed her. And I don’t think my teeth sharpened but my strength—

“Like the girl you’re kissing means everything to you.” She looks up at me again with fire in her eyes. “A man who doesn’t stay in one place shouldn’t kiss as if he’s holding everything he’s ever wanted in his arms. As if he’s making a promise.”

I only kissed her like that because I want to make that promise. But there’s only one promise I can make. “I won’t do it again.”

Because I won’t be kissing anyone else after this. And I don’t need more reason than I already have to find the fuckers who killed my family—but knowing that if I do, that I can come back and stay is a hell of a new motivator.

Stiffly she nods, accepting that answer. And it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I step back, forcing myself to let her go. My voice is hoarse as I tell her, “I’m heading back into town now.”

“Good.” She swings open her door, then pauses long enough to add, “Take care, Ethan” before climbing into the driver’s seat.

Then she just waits. Maybe because something inside her is aching, the same way it is in me. Aching and wishing for more, and making it hard to leave.

It’s not until I hear the soft whine at my side that I realize what she’s waiting for. Thelma and Alf are plastered against my legs, trying hard to console me by licking my hands. “Go on,” I tell them softly. “And look after her.”

The way I ought to be watching over her. Instead I watch them scramble to load up into her truck. Then I watch her drive away.

4

ETHAN

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I can still taste her. Every single second I think about turning back. I park at the motel and debate heading into my room and wrapping my fist around my cock until I jerk out some of this need. But the physical pain of wanting her is a welcome distraction from the deeper ache that’s been building in me since I watched her drive away.

I adjusted to breathing her air. Now that I’m away from her, it’s like I can’t breathe at all. I sniff my palms every chance I get, where I cupped her jaw in my hands, cursing the oil and grease that almost overwhelm her smell. The faint scent of her that still lingers in town is a painful tease. And when I hit the first tavern and her fragrance fills that closed-up space, as if she’d been there only a few hours before, it’s relief and agony all at once.

Relief that I can breathe in more of her again. Agony that she’s not here.

I fucking knew this would happen. I don’t know what the hell is going on, or why she affects me like this. Attraction, sure. That’s easy to understand. She’s absolutely stunning, a goddess in the flesh. And I wouldn’t blame any woman for driving past a broke-down truck and a giant stranger, but she pulled over—and that means a hell of a lot. Looking at her ranch, I know she works hard. Talking to her, I know she’s smart. That’s a hell of a woman.

Still, I’ve known other women who were the complete package like she is, and I never reacted this way to them. Never. And until I first caught Makena’s scent three years ago, I had my share of female companionship. That’s just my nature. Sex feels real good and as long as the woman was willing—and as long as she knew I wasn’t staying in one place—I never saw any reason to hold back.

I wouldn’t have held back with Makena if it weren’t for the effect she has on me. Because being with her will be different than being with any other woman. And nothing in my brain can explain how I know that. I can list all the ways she’s a woman I want in my bed. But I can’t explain why her scent drew me like it did. Can’t explain why I nearly passed out the first time I got a strong whiff. Can’t explain why being next to her feels so damn right. Can’t explain why kissing her was a fucking holy experience. Can’t explain why leaving her nearly ripped me apart.

I can’t explain any of that, yet my instincts warned me this would be the result. I’d meet her, then kill myself walking away in order to do my duty for my family. Or I’d kill myself by staying with her and betraying their memory.

My gut is telling me that this woman will be my whole damn world—and instinct is a damn fine part of me. Usually, I listen to it. But I can fight it if I need to.

Right now I need to. I’ve got a purpose here in Fortune City, but that purpose isn’t getting into bed with Makena. That purpose isn’t staying. But when I sit at the bar, I’m not thinking of the mystery that’s obsessed me for eleven years, or asking about the couple who were mauled. Instead something Makena said is nagging at me. Something that I didn’t get a chance to ask her about.

She said that it’d be “safest” if I didn’t take the job at her place. And no matter how I turn it around in my head, I can’t make sense of it—except to wonder whether it means that she isn’t safe there, either.

If she isn’t safe, that changes everything.

So after I order a beer, the first thing I say to the bartender is, “You know anything about the Riverbend Ranch?”

His eyes narrow and he sizes me up, like I already did him. He’s white, with a short brown beard and thinning hair. His body seems mostly arms and legs and neck, but he’s more wiry and deliberate in his movements than gangly and awkward. In his early forties, maybe—older than Makena but, since she was in here having a drink, possibly a friend of hers.

That might explain the guarded note I hear in his voice when he says, “I suppose that depends why you’re asking.”

Because I’m desperate to know everything there is to know about the woman who runs it. Because I need something more of her before I leave Fortune City. Anything more. Even if it’s just some fucking small-town gossip. And I need to know if she’s in some kind of trouble.

But asking that directly might shut him down, just like it did the librarian earlier today when I asked about the Laines. Instead I tell him, “Because I ran into the owner and she offered me a job. She said her ranch hand just quit—but being new around here, I’ve got no idea whether he had the right idea, and if she’s the kind of employer who screws her men over.”

Considering how Makena went out of her way to help a stranger, I’m sure that she’d bend over backward helping anyone who worked for her. So I know the answer. I just want to get him talking.

That narrow-eyed stare remains steady on my face for another long second. Then he gestures to my right with a sharp lift of his chin. “You’ll want to ask Sam about that.”

Three stools down, a grizzled old man responds to the name, pulling his gaze away from the flatscreen over the bar, where the local sportscaster is highlighting a sack that had the Aggie’s quarterback eating Smurf turf. With weatherbeaten skin and thick-knuckled fingers, Sam looks like he’s spent most of his life toiling on a ranch or a farm—and smells like he’s spent a good portion of it in the bar. The alcohol fumes coming off him are stronger than my beer, but judging by the clear gaze that meets mine, he holds that liquor pretty damn well.

“Then his next one’s on me,” I tell the bartender as I change seats, settling in next to the old man. “I hear you’re familiar with the Riverbend Ranch?”

“Makena offered him a job,” the bartender fills in. “Apparently Julio took off.”

Sam frowns. “Julio quit? Why?”

He sounds like he can’t believe it. But when the bartender shrugs, they both look to me for an explanation.

I give them the little I know. “Makena said he left to take care of his family.”

Which seems a reasonable explanation, but the two men only frown a little more. “She didn’t say a damn thing about it when she was in here earlier,” Sam grumbles before pinning a steely look on me. “Did you take the job?”

“I’m leaning that way.” I stick to the line I fed the bartender. “But hearing that her last man quit made me wonder if I should.”

He snorts. “Julio was with them for ten years—and I’d have bet good money that he’d be with them at least ten years more. If he’s gone, you can be damn sure Makena and Jonas aren’t the reason.”

Jonas, the uncle. “You know them pretty well, then?”

“You might say that. I called them neighbors for almost twenty-five years. When haying and calving time came around, they’d help over at my place and I’d help over at theirs.” He suddenly grins and nostalgia tinges his voice. “Hell, my youngest girl bought her first car with money she earned babysitting Makena.”

“So they’re good people.” But I already know that Makena is.

“Best I’ve known,” Sam says and the bartender nods. To the other man, Sam adds, “You ever hear anything more about their fences?”

The bartender shakes his head. “Not a word.”

Tension grips the back of my neck. “What about their fences?”

“Some shithead ripped out a bunch of posts in the south pasture.” A dangerous glint in Sam’s eyes tells me he’s not exaggerating when he adds, “I ever hear who did that, I swear to God I’ll help Jonas string them up by their balls.”

And this is what I needed to know. “They’ve had some trouble recently, then?”

“Nothing that I thought might scare Julio off. Mostly talk.” He eyes me closely. “You worried about talk?”

I’m not worried about anything except Makena. “What kind of talk leads to ripping out someone’s fences?”

The bartender leans in, face hard and voice quiet. “When there’s rumors that a development company can’t get started building the resort that’ll bring new jobs into this town until Makena and Jonas sell their spread.”

“Which is bullshit,” Sam adds, “because MDC’s original plans didn’t include anything on our side of the river. But after I sold them my place, it seems they wanted more.”

Then I’ll be staying in Fortune City longer than I planned. “You telling me she’s got some big company riding her ass?”

After a short nod, Sam chuckles. “And your expression says that settled it. What’d you say your name was?”

I didn’t. “Ethan.”

“You have something against golf courses, Ethan?”

He looks amused, but I’m not even close to laughing. Because Makena said “safest”—a word she wouldn’t need to use if there wasn’t any danger.

“I have something against bullies,” I tell him.

“So I guess you’re taking that job.”

“I guess I am.” Because I’m not leaving town until I stop any fucker who messes with her. And somehow, I’ll need to be strong enough to leave when the trouble’s over. But I’ll deal with that when she’s safe. And I’ll suffer any pain to make certain she is.

I better not waste any time, though. Since people in this town are hard up for jobs, her offer might not be on the table for long. Hell, a job might not be on the table at all anymore, not after the way she reacted when I kissed her.

And she might not be the only one who’ll make the decision to take me on. “What about her uncle Jonas—is he easy to get along with?”

“Sure he is, providing that you’re not a damn fool.” Sam gives me a look that says while he’s no fool, he’s not convinced about me yet. “Some folks around here think he’s an odd one, but I suppose that’s because he doesn’t run his mouth and he keeps to himself—and he don’t seem to bother with any women. I’m not saying he’s fancy, mind you.”

The bartender shakes his head. “You can say ‘gay,’ old man.”

“He’s not,” Sam says.

“Wouldn’t mean a thing to me if he was,” I tell him bluntly. Though I’ve been in enough places to know how people might create another layer of trouble for Makena and her family over it. Just like they might because of her color.

“Well, I figure it’s because he’s a foreigner, so his ways aren’t like ours.” That declaration has the bartender shaking his head again, but Sam continues before the other man can respond. “And maybe because he’s still hung up on Makena’s mother. But you can’t blame a man for that. God rest her soul, my wife used to tease me that I was half in love with her myself.” His eyes go misty. “And perhaps I was. That was a hell of a woman.”

“Her mother was?” Not surprising, since Makena is, too. But I don’t miss the past tense.

Sam nods, his misty gaze still on the past. “I never even knew women like that really existed—not outside of movies, anyway.”

The bartender snorts. “You didn’t know black women existed? She was hardly the first one in Idaho, Sam. Not even the first in Fortune City.”

“You gonna let me finish?” Sam shoots back. “I’m not talking about her color. It was the way she moved, the way she talked. Even in jeans she looked like a queen—or like one of them women from those old spy movies. First she’d hypnotize you with that accent. And then if you’re lucky, she’ll kiss you before she kills you. But even the way she kills you might not be so bad…” He trails off, whistling through his teeth, then takes a long swallow of his whiskey.

“She was French,” the bartender tells me.

Sam frowns at him. “She wasn’t French.”

“Yeah, she was. You do know they have black people in France, too?”

“Well, she wasn’t born there.” The older man scowls. “And I’m about done putting up with your shit, Larry.”

“The first time you told me that was twenty years ago, during my first shift behind this bar. Yet you haven’t left that stool yet.”

And won’t, I figure. They’re both enjoying this little spat, judging by their scents. Not a hint of aggression is coming off either one. Probably they’ve been entertaining each other this way for all those twenty years.

But I’m not here for this. “So Makena’s father was Jonas’s brother?”

Sam nods, his gaze narrowing again. “Some folks in town used to joke that it must be the other way around, but I tell you it wasn’t.”

He lost me. “What’s the other way around?”

“That Jonas is Makena’s daddy. But I reckon people just said that because Jonas and Halima seemed like more of a pair. She was the one who taught Makena how to shoot a rifle, how to drive—all that shit. And the horses, the cattle…it was her and Jonas who made that ranch into what it is. I’m not saying that Mikael didn’t work, too—he worked just as hard as any of them. But he was, I dunno…softer. From the way he spoke to the way he spent so much time researching and studying. Like his head was always somewhere else.”

Halima and Mikael. Realization slams into me and sends my brain reeling. For a second, I’ve never felt stupider in all my life. Here I am in Fortune City looking for the Laines, and I found the daughter—then walked away from her. But I never figured she’d be as old as Makena. Eleven years ago, Makena must have been sixteen or seventeen. Still a minor. But not nearly as young as I’d pictured.

And somehow I just fell ass over backwards into discovering exactly what I came into this tavern to discover. Nothing that Sam has told me about her family makes me think the Laines had a thing to do with my own family being murdered, though.

But I’ve still got to be sure. “So you were living next door when Makena lost them?”

“She told you about that?” Larry sounds surprised.

I nod, not a bit sorry for the lie, my gaze still on Sam. All at once the old man appears as drunk as he smells, his shoulders slumping, his eyes glassy and tired. “I was. And must have drove past where they were lying a half dozen times—with no idea that Makena was trapped in that goddamn mine. No food, no water. All because I didn’t see what was happening two hundred yards from where I was.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that, Sam. You can’t even see the mine from the road.”

The bartender’s absolution only seems to piss off the old man. “I shouldn’t blame myself? That last winter at my place, my wife gone and my kids away, I came down with a flu that knocked the shit out of me so hard I couldn’t get out of bed. And that same goddamn day, Jonas knocks on my door—because he saw that my cattle hadn’t been fed yet. So he knew something was wrong. He noticed even though he didn’t have any reason to drive past my place. Yet Mikael and Halima were lying out there all torn up, for three damn days, until Jonas came home and went looking for them. Another day in that hole and Makena would have been dead, too. As it is, she was barely moving when we got her out. And wasn’t in her right mind for days after.”

Jesus. “How’d she get trapped in a mine?”

Larry answers that. “They were apparently at that end of their property when that bear came after them. That old silver mine was probably the nearest place they figured she’d be safe.” He turns to Sam again. “And whose daughter volunteered to go in after her when none of the rescuers could fit through the crawlspace into that hole? Yours. So you did good there, Sam, raising her to be that girl.”

The old man harrumphs, then takes another drink.

“Did they ever get the bear?”

“No.” Regret and frustration carve even deeper lines into Sam’s leathery skin. “Though I knew what we were looking for: I’d seen a black bear and her two cubs down by the river earlier that week. So I figure the Laines stumbled across those cubs while they were out, and that mama bear just…” He sighs and tiredly rubs the back of his neck. “So much time passed before we found them that we lost all trace of her. Though I spent a whole damn month searching those hills up behind our place, I promise you that. But I figure the bears crossed the river.”

And I figure that the Laines’ mauling didn’t have a thing to do with the bearkin, then. A mama bear defending her young makes a lot more sense, given all that they’ve said. So I won’t be finding clues to my family’s murders here in Fortune City. I’ll have to move on.

But not yet.

Sam packs up and staggers out not much later. I sit at the bar until closing time, listening for a hint of who might have ripped out Makena’s fences, listening for any mention of her name. And I’ve got damn good hearing. But not a word.

Finally I head back to the motel. In my room, I cup my hand over my face and breathe in her scent again. My other hand gets to work stroking my cock, trying to ease the ache of needing her. But it looks like my agony’s just beginning.

Because my hand doesn’t ease a damn thing.

5

MAKENA

WHEN MY ALARM starts blaring at five, only sheer willpower gets me out of bed. I’m used to waking up early, but even after a good night’s sleep, I’m never bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—and last night wasn’t exactly a good night’s sleep. So I blearily haul a sweatshirt on over my camisole, don’t bother to change out of my pajama shorts, and stumble my way downstairs with Alf and Thelma at my heels. The coffeemaker’s on a timer and the fragrant promise of caffeine manages to pry my eyes half open. After filling my insulated mug, I shove my feet into knee-high rubber boots and head out to the barn, shivering in the early-morning chill.

This part of my morning routine I could do asleep, so it hardly matters that I’m a zombie as I work through it. I feed the chickens and horses, give the dairy cow some grain, and settle in to milk her—by hand, because although we’ve got a milking machine, cleaning and sanitizing it afterward takes more time than it’s worth for a single cow.

It’s just shy of five-thirty when I head back to the house, weighed down by two gallons of raw milk and a basket of eggs. The dew’s thick on the grass, though it’ll burn off soon. A warm hue brightens the sky over the eastern hills, and the sun won’t be far behind. All around me, birds cheerily greet the morning.

Probably because they weren’t awake most of the night, feeling sorry for themselves. Probably because they’ve got their little birdy mates and their little birdy babies are all grown up, so they’re just sitting pretty in their empty little nests, tweeting their fool heads off.

That stupid cowboy. I wish he hadn’t kissed me like that.

If he hadn’t, then maybe when I got back home last night, it wouldn’t have occurred to me that I was utterly alone. No Julio. No Jonas. It was just me and the dogs. That’s never bothered me before. Not once. All this time, I thought I was content with the way things are. But I’m not. And Jonas should be home again this evening…but last night, it was as if I glimpsed what my future holds. A future where I’m always coming home to a lonely house.

Maybe I never thought about it before because, for a long time, the ranch was never part of my future. Instead I planned to head off to college, then get a job in Boise or another nearby city—somewhere I could be close enough to visit my family, but far enough that I could live my own life. Then my parents were killed, and staying on the ranch became my new future. And that’s not a choice I’ve regretted. I won’t ever regret it.

Still, the past decade slipped by like no time at all. I never thought that I’d be twenty-eight years old, with no serious relationships in my past—and none visible on the horizon, either. I thought that by now I’d be married with at least one kid on the way.

I thought there’d be someone in my life who always kissed me like I was the world to him.

Instead that kiss came from a drifter with no intention of sticking around—and it woke up a painful longing inside me. For the first time in my life, it struck me that more decades might slip by the same way. In ten or twenty more years, when my uncle Jonas is gone for good, I might be coming home to an empty house every day. Or end up like Sam Rudder, selling off the ranch and spending every day in a tavern just so that I have someone to talk to.

That’s not a future I want. Neither is settling for anything less than a man who kisses me as if I’m everything. And I know damn well I won’t find him in Fortune City. But leaving to find one isn’t really an option.

Maybe I ought to put an ad on Craigslist. “Rancher in rural Idaho seeks mail-order groom. Must enjoy bad cellular service and backbreaking labor, know how to kiss like a house on fire, and love animals (but not too much, considering that they’re sold to people who eat them).”

I doubt many serious replies would come in. But imagining the silly responses I’d get lightens my mood.

Maybe the dogs pick up on it, because something lightens their moods, too. They’ve been pouting since we drove away from Ethan—both of them staring through the rear window of my truck until he was out of sight, whimpering like their little doggie hearts were breaking. Then they spent the rest of the night moping around the house. This morning wasn’t much better. Thelma usually gives the chickens hell when I’m feeding them, but this time she flopped down outside the coop and watched me with mournful eyes. Now all of a sudden she’s prancing around my legs, and only a miracle prevents me from tripping over her and spilling the milk and eggs. A few feet away, Alf comes to a sudden stop, his tail whipping back and forth, his head up and his droopy ears perked.

Perked…toward the road. I frown in the same direction. It’s still dark enough that if someone was coming, I ought to see their headlights.

Unless he’s not using headlights. My heart lurches as I make out the shadowed shape of an approaching pickup. From this distance, I can’t be sure it’s Ethan’s F-150. But the way the dogs are reacting, I don’t know who else it might be.

“Don’t get too excited,” I tell the dogs and continue on toward the back porch. “He probably forgot something in our truck and is coming to get it. Then he’ll be gone again.”

They don’t care. They’ve both abandoned me and hightailed it toward the front of the house, where they usually greet me when I’m coming home.

Stupid dogs. Entering the house through the back door, I tromp through the mud room and into the kitchen. My heart’s beating like a drum, but that isn’t because Ethan’s coming. It’s just because I’m lugging around this big stainless-steel jug full of milk.

Of course, as soon as I set the jug and the basket of eggs on the counter, I’ve got to find a new explanation for my racing pulse.

Through the window over the sink, I watch his pickup turn onto my driveway…and here I am, still wearing my hair wrap. Shit. Couldn’t he have waited until a civilized hour? I take a minute to undo the wrap and shake some life into my flattened curls. For a moment I entertain the thought of running upstairs to change into something other than raggedy pajama shorts and an old sweatshirt, but toss that thought away as quickly as it came. The time for wearing kissing panties is over. And if he doesn’t like my old rubber boots or the way they’re spattered with cow shit…well, it doesn’t matter a bit. Soon enough he’ll be leaving town. So I’ll be neighborly, but not a damn thing more.

I head outside again, snagging my keys off the hook by the door when it occurs to me that he might still be having problems with his pickup. The dogs are singing up a welcome—Alf’s deep baying and Thelma’s sharp, short barks rolling together in a discordant chorus.

I stop near the front porch and hope my expression doesn’t seem too welcoming. “Settle down, you two. He probably needs to do more repairs on his engine, and I already told him he could use our tools.” So I’ll unlock the workshop and let him do his thing while I’m busy doing mine. “And if that’s it, he’ll only be here a few hours, at most.”

The dogs don’t pay attention to me, but I’m not really talking to them, anyway. Instead I’m steeling myself against any stupid impulse that might pop into my head.

An impulse like asking him to kiss me again. Because look where it got me—wishing for a husband and wallowing in discontent. That lonely, glum person isn’t who I am. And I won’t allow some drifter to turn me inside out.

Not even if he still hits every single one of my buttons. Because, my god—he really is something to look at. So big and rough-edged all over.

But it’s more than that. Because the second he steps out of his pickup, the dogs are all over him. Without hesitation, Ethan crouches down to their level. Watching the easy way he greets them by name and affectionately scratches their ears, I remember why I was so willing to put on my kissing panties. He even grins as they slobber him with kisses, like he’s glad to see them again, too.

Then his gaze lands on me, and my breath catches hard in my throat. An involuntary shiver races over my skin, leaving goosebumps behind. After driving away last night, I almost convinced myself that it was just the situation—me running across a tall stranger on a dark, deserted stretch of road—that lent a hard and feral aspect to his appearance. But fifteen feet away and well-lit by the floodlight off the front porch, he still looks as imposing and as dangerous as when I first saw him.

Except the real threat he poses isn’t just his size or that feral vibe. Instead it’s my reaction to him. Last night I gave him hell for kissing me as if I was everything to him. But now he’s looking at me the same way—and I’m glad I steeled myself against any response so my face doesn’t betray the longing that fills me up again, squeezing my heart. The floodlight catches a golden gleam in his eyes as he looks me over from head to toe, consuming every inch of me with that intense, possessive gaze.

Rationally, I know that what I see in his eyes has to either be my imagination or a lie. The lust, I believe. But he doesn’t know me well enough to look at me with tenderness and devotion, or as if I’m the center of his world—or as if I belong to him. My heart and my body don’t care, though. They both want everything that look promises, my heart yearning and my body suddenly hot and restless.

This man is a danger to me. I suspected it the moment he got into my truck last night, and I know it for sure now.

With his amber gaze still on me, he murmurs something to the dogs and they instantly settle down. Removing his hat, he slowly rises to his feet. His voice is a rich, deep rumble. “I worried that I’d arrive too early. But I ought to have come a half hour ago.”

I’m glad he didn’t. Concealing my reaction to him is hard enough now. If I were still half-asleep, a lot more might be tumbling out of my mouth than a simple, “Why?”

“I’d have helped you with the morning chores. Because I’d like to take that job you mentioned.”

For a full second, I can’t breathe. So many conflicting emotions and thoughts rip through me that I don’t know what I’m thinking or feeling. But when the onslaught subsides, one overwhelming emotion remains: hope. Because Ethan’s here, his hat literally in his hand, asking to stay.

Except…that’s not what he intended to do last night. “What about your family obligations? You said you’d be taking off as soon as your business was done here.”

His eyes darken. “I learned that I’ve got reason to remain in Fortune City a bit longer.”

Hope deflates. “So you’re looking for something temporary?”

His jaw clenches, and a struggle seems to wage across his expression. A long moment passes before he says gruffly, “I am. But it sounds like you didn’t expect to lose your last man. So if I’m filling in for him, you can take your time finding a replacement instead of quickly hiring someone who might not work out. In the meantime, I’ll work harder and faster than anyone you’ve had before. And for a lot cheaper, too.”

He’s already working hard—and smart. In his effort to persuade me, he just strung together more words at one time than I’ve heard from him before, and he’s dangling the carrot that hits every rancher’s sweet spot: good, cheap labor.

But I’m not so easily led. And the cost of hiring him might not just be the money spent. “What if my definition of ‘cheaper’ doesn’t match yours? I haven’t even told you what the wage is.”

“I don’t care what the wage is,” he claims, but there’s something about this job he must care about, or he wouldn’t be here at the crack of dawn, asking me to hire him. “You’ve already told me it includes room and board. I don’t need anything else. Except maybe fuel, if I use my vehicle on the job.”

The Idaho Department of Labor would have something to say about hiring anyone for that cheap. And I’m not easily led, but I am tempted. Because he’s not wrong. Replacing Julio won’t be easy. Plus there’s always a chance that Julio might return if I can get MDC off my back.

Yet by hiring Ethan, I might be putting a target on his back. And then there’s the little problem of the danger that I suspect he’ll pose to my heart.

Silence falls between us as I’m torn by indecision. His posture rigid with tension, Ethan’s utterly still, watching me with that unwavering, predatory gaze. Beside him, Thelma whimpers softly and licks his hand, as if seeking his attention.

God. Even my dogs are crazy about him. I might be completely screwed by the time he leaves. But I’d be a fool to turn away an experienced, hardworking ranch hand simply because he unsettles my emotions. We do need help around here. Good help.

Though…maybe that’s the answer. Because if he’s not good help, then there’s not even a question.

“Do you have references?” I finally ask.

Immediately the tension vanishes from his shoulders. His taut expression eases into a slow, sexy grin. “I’ve got them ready here.”

Sliding his hat back over his brown hair, he closes the distance between us in a few long strides. For an instant everything feels just as it did last night, when I teased him and turned around to find him coming after me, intent on a kiss. Awareness prickles my skin, heat rolling through my belly—and I don’t even think of stopping him. He halts an arm’s length away, so big, his roughly hewn features shadowed by his hat brim, and he reaches for me with his right hand.

Automatically I lift my hand toward his, then realize he’s holding a folded sheet of paper that he must have pulled from his back pocket.

Not reaching for me. Giving me his references.

I pray he doesn’t notice how hot my cheeks are as I take the paper, careful not to touch his fingers. I don’t need any more touching between us. Not when I react like this simply because he comes close.

But even if I don’t touch, it’s hard not to look. The sleeves of his flannel shirt are rolled back, revealing steely forearms dusted with dark hair. Calluses roughen his broad palms and his long, blunt fingers. His nails are clipped short—and he must have spent some time scrubbing them, because not a trace of last night’s engine oil remains. Everything about him seems clean, as if before coming here he carefully showered and shaved and made certain to pick the freshest clothes out of whatever luggage he’s got.

Yet here I am with fresh cow shit on my boots—and if I’m not mistaken, he just took a long, deep breath, like he was scenting something. Maybe me.

Not that it matters. Because if I hire him, there’ll be nothing else between us. There can’t be.

But I’m still rattled and far too aware of his gaze on my face as I unfold the paper—not even seeing what he’s written. Just trying desperately to pull myself together.

Luckily, the motel he stayed at makes it easy. “The Ponderosa’s classier than I gave them credit for,” I tell him drily. “They’ve even got their own stationary.”

Which looks like somebody pasted a plain address label over the logo that was originally printed onto the notepaper—a logo that isn’t the Ponderosa’s.

Ethan’s rumbling chuckle rolls out. “If there’d been anywhere to print those references from my laptop this morning, I would have given you something a little more professional. Instead I had to write it by hand.”

Neat block letters create a list of names, dates, and phone numbers. My attention catches on the first name—and a job he left less than a week ago.

“You worked for Bill Weathering?”

“A couple of times over the past ten years,” he says. “Mostly seasonal work.”

I scan the other names. Some are familiar, but that first one will matter most. Bill’s beef operation is similar to ours, though his is a lot bigger. “And what’s he going to say about you? You might as well be upfront about it now, because he’s a good friend of ours.”

“He’ll say that he offered to double my pay if I took on a permanent position there,” Ethan says bluntly. “But if we’re being upfront, then let me tell you that I’m not here for the job, Makena. I’m here for you.”

My mouth drops open. That was really upfront. But despite the way my blood starts simmering when his gaze falls to my parted lips, I shake my head. “That’s no good, then. I don’t need someone to mess around with in bed. This month alone I’ve got my fall-calving cows ready to drop, my spring calves to wean, almost fifty head to finish and get out to buyers, and a garden and an orchard full of produce that needs harvesting and preserving. And that’s in addition to all the usual labor we do around here. So I need help and someone who’ll work.”

“That’s what you’ll get. I didn’t say I was here for sex. I’m here for you.” And he looks at me again in the way that promises far too much. “Sure, I’d like to have both. But if you put up fences between me and your bed, I’ll stay on the side you tell me to—though I can’t promise I won’t spend some time sitting up on the top rail of that fence and looking over.”

Like he’s doing right now. Not standing too close, but somehow still invading every inch of space surrounding me, as if his physical presence extends beyond his actual body. God knows, that big body takes up enough space on its own.

Doing my best not to appear at all overwhelmed by him—or turned on—I primly fold the sheet of references and tell him, “All right. Consider that fence erected.”

Oh shit. My face catches fire the moment erected leaves my tongue. Ethan’s eyes start dancing, but his mouth flattens and his jaw clamps, as if he’s doing his best not to laugh or he’s biting back a smart-ass comment. Good choice, considering he came here looking for a job.

I decide my best option is to pretend it didn’t happen. I start off toward the back of the house, since my boots are too dirty to take him through the front. “Come on, then. I’m running late with breakfast”—and calling Bill Weathering will put me behind a few more minutes—“but the coffee’s ready.”

I could also use another cup before I tell him about MDC. I wouldn’t feel comfortable hiring anyone without warning them first. And Ethan might not be so eager to work here if he knows why Julio had to leave. He’s got family obligations, so that means he has a family to protect. So I’ll lay it all out over breakfast.

A few steps later, I realize Ethan’s not behind me. Every cowboy I know jumps at an offer of coffee. Yet he’s still standing by the front porch, his head cocked and staring off into the distance.

I frown at him. “You have something against breakfast?”

As if it’s some kind of explanation, he says, “A breeze started up.”

Barely. In the nearby cherry tree, the leaves are hardly even moving…and those happily tweeting birds have gone silent. Suddenly uneasy, I realize the dogs are doing the same thing Ethan is—lifting their heads into the wind, their attention focused in the same direction. A low growl from Thelma sends shivers running down the back of my neck.

Quietly Ethan asks, “Do you do your own slaughtering here on the ranch?”

“Rarely.” At least not since my mom died, because she used to handle it. So unless a buyer makes different arrangements, we send livestock to the local butcher, who ships the meat out to our customers. “Why?”

“I caught a whiff of blood. Have you checked on your herd yet this morning?”

Blood? I can’t smell anything but the dew on the grass and the faint odors coming from the barn. Unable to make sense of what he’s saying, I shake my head. “Julio and I usually move the herd after breakfast—”

Oh god. And Julio’s gone because MDC threatened his sister. What if they decided ripping out my fences and chasing off my employees weren’t enough?

Gripped by sudden dread, I take off at a sprint, hauling ass toward my truck. Behind me, Ethan curses and orders the dogs to stay. My heart’s pounding so hard in my ears that I don’t hear him coming after me—and then passing me. He’s so fast it’s like he’s simply there, standing at the side of my truck with his big hand flattened against the driver’s side door, as if to prevent me from opening it.

His voice is low and urgent. “Let me go first and see what it is, Makena. Then I’ll—”

“Ethan.” Barely holding onto my temper, I grind out his name through gritted teeth. “Get in the truck or get the fuck out of my way.”

A muscle works in his jaw. Then he hauls open the door. “How many gates between here and there?”

“Two.” I slide in and stab my key into the ignition.

Over the low growl of the engine comes the heavy thunk of boots as Ethan vaults up into the truck bed. The second he raps his knuckles against the side panel, telling me he’s ready, I peel out of the carport and head for the pasture.

Tension rolls my gut into a sick knot. I can’t see the herd yet. Our ranch sits on the narrow plain between the river and the surrounding hills; on a map, the overall shape of our spread is like a big, squished U, courtesy of a bend in the river. But even if the land lay in a straight line instead of following the river’s course, I wouldn’t see them yet. We rotate the herd through sections of the pasture, moving them to a new grazing patch each day. This time of year, they’re at the far end of the property—almost a mile and a half away from the house.

Ethan jumps out of the truck bed as I approach the first gate, and he opens it so quickly I barely have to slow down. As soon as he’s back in, I speed down the cattle alley that runs through the center of the pasture. My hands ache from gripping the steering wheel so tight. Sour fear coats my tongue, and I tell myself that I’m just overreacting. Worry about MDC has stressed me out and now I’m seeing threats everywhere. Because there’s no way Ethan could smell blood from over a mile away. Sure, the dogs smelled something, too. But maybe it was a deer brought down close to the house. We’ve got cougars and bears around here—

It’s not a deer. As soon as we round the curve, I know something’s wrong. We’re still too far away to see exactly what, but everything about the way the herd is bunched up toward one end of their grazing patch sets off alarms in my head.

Most of them are standing, though. So it can’t be too bad. It can’t be too bad. I tell myself that over and over, praying that it’ll be true.

But I know it’s not true even before Ethan swings open the gate into that section of the pasture. In the dim morning light, I still can’t see many details, but by the time we reach the electric fence that contains the herd within their grazing patch, I’ve counted two dozen carcasses lying in the grass ahead.

Two dozen. No bear or cougar would do that. Only people would.

My stomach begins heaving the moment I get out of the truck. Not because of the blood, though Ethan was right—it smells like a slaughter. Rage and fear boil up inside me so hard that I barely swallow the urge to vomit. I’ve been around animals all my life, and that includes seeing them butchered. Yet this is so wasteful. And so cruel. And so fucking terrifying. What kind of psychopath would do this? Is getting my land really worth this? And how the hell can I stop it?

“Makena.” Beside me, Ethan’s voice is low and soothing, but with an undercurrent of rough, hot anger. “You okay?”

“No,” I say and let my own anger take hold, because otherwise I might start bawling. “But we need to move the herd. Can you handle the electric fence up ahead? There are insulated gloves on the front seat.”

“I’ll get it done.”

My throat’s too tight now to do more than nod a thanks. Grabbing a flashlight from my truck, I duck under the electric wire and make my way toward the first carcass. Vaguely I’m aware of the cattle lowing uneasily as Ethan walks through the pasture, trotting away from him instead of trying to rush the temporary fence and get to the fresh grass like they normally do. As if they’re still spooked by the scent of blood or simply wary of any stranger now.

Because last night someone—or a couple of someones—must have terrorized them. My heart stops in my chest when the flashlight reveals the damage done. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting. Maybe that someone came out here with a bolt stunner and a blade. But I didn’t expect a dead steer that appears mostly unharmed…except for where its skull is caved in, head smashed and brain splattered across the grass.

What the hell could do that? A shotgun? Except I didn’t hear a thing last night—and I was lying awake for most of it. But even if I’d been sound asleep, two dozen shotgun blasts would’ve had the dogs barking up a storm.

There’s a few more nearby, all killed the same way. The others are more scattered, as if the herd began fleeing the massacre. But whoever it was caught up to them. And it must have been over quick. Some of them appear to have been killed mid-run. That’s the only bright spot in all this horror—none of them suffered.

But if I find out who did this, there’s going to be a hell of a lot of suffering. Rage and grief thrum an alternating beat through my veins, but I keep a lid on both as I head over to help Ethan with the stragglers who are refusing to go anywhere near the gate into the next grazing area. All calves, I realize—waiting on the cows that aren’t coming. I meant to wean them this month. But not like this.

By the time I make it over there, Ethan’s circling around behind them. They dash in the opposite direction—the direction he wants them to go. I hold open the temporary gate while Ethan rounds up the last one. It races ahead of him, bawling. Still afraid of a stranger in their midst.

His gaze searches my face as I reconnect the cross fence. “They’ll be used to me in a day or two,” he says gruffly.

“Probably just spooked,” I agree.

He gives me another searching look. Then he glances back at the bloodied pasture, his jaw hardening as his gaze scans the field. “You want me to roll up that back fence?”

Which we’d usually do, then put it into place as tomorrow’s front fence. But I shake my head. “I’ll leave it up until Kyle gets here. Maybe someone was stupid enough to leave fingerprints on a post when they went through. I haven’t touched anything yet…though we need to get that water tub moved.”

I start in that direction, and he falls in beside me.

“Kyle?”

“The sheriff.”

“Do you know who did this?”

A shiver races down my spine at the flat, deadly edge in his voice. He’s studying a downed heifer and his profile looks carved from stone.

I’ve got a damned good idea who did it. Or not exactly who, but why. But I know better than to sling around accusations without any evidence.

If Ethan’s going to be working here, though, he deserves to know what’s going on. “Maybe,” I finally say. “I’ve had some trouble with a development company pressuring me to sell the ranch. Though I didn’t expect anything like this. So this might be someone else. Maybe some locals.”

“Locals?” He slashes a frown my way. “Is it some racist shit?”

“No,” I say, then a bitter laugh escapes me. “Well, maybe. Most people in town are all right. Or at least they have good intentions, even if they say some really stupid things now and then. And I suppose some people keep quiet about what they truly think about anyone who isn’t white. But there are also some who aren’t so quiet. Maybe they’d use this whole thing with MDC as an excuse to hurt me, and tell themselves it’s not because I’m the brown daughter of immigrants, but because they believe I’m preventing all those new jobs from coming into town.”

“And which way are you leaning?”

“MDC. Because look at what they did…” My throat abruptly tightens again, leaving my voice strained and raw. “I don’t even know what kind of weapon could make a mess like that. And if it had been locals, they’d have most likely stolen the cows instead of killing them, because whether they eat it or sell it, beef equals money. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had a few head taken.”

“You don’t think they’re pissed off enough to slaughter part of a herd?”

“Maybe. But if they were, they’d probably use guns, get it done fast. The herd’s over a mile from the house. Even if they made noise, they know it’d take me a while to get here—and even longer for Kyle to arrive. But I don’t think this was a gun.”

Ethan draws in a long breath and his frown deepens. “I don’t smell any gunpowder. Or much of anything else.”

Neither do I—and the burnt odor of gunpowder would have lingered. “So this seems more like what MDC did with Julio. Threaten and push just enough to scare us.”

His amber gaze spears me again. “What’d they do to him?”

“They threatened his sister. So if you need to—”

A sound like a growl cuts me off. “Did they do anything to her?”

“Just strongly suggested they would,” I say. “So he left to protect her.”

“And who’s protecting you?”

“My uncle and I do all right taking care of each other.” We have for years now. “But you should know what you might be getting into. Since you have family, maybe—”

“I don’t have any family left. So until this trouble is over, I’ll—” He breaks off as we reach the big water tub. His voice hardens again. “There’s your weapon.”

Sick rage shoots up my throat. Lying next to the tub is a sledgehammer, the head and handle covered in gore.

Horror and disbelief shudder through me. “That’s my uncle’s,” I tell Ethan, playing my flashlight over the length of it and settling the light on the grip. “He always wraps duct tape around the handle like that. It’s supposed to be in his workshop.”

“The same workshop I was in last night?”

I nod. “Yes, I…” Oh god. “I forgot to lock it up when I got back home.”

Ethan looks grim. “If this bastard stole it from there, he must have been right outside your house last night.”

“He must have been. But I didn’t hear or see anyone. And the dogs didn’t bark.” Another realization hits and a short, high-pitched laugh escapes me. “Whoever did this must have known my uncle was gone, too. He’s been camping out in those hills every night since our fences got torn out, watching over this end of the pasture. But he wasn’t here last night. So either they got lucky or they’re watching us come and go.”

“Then I’ll start watching over your place at night.” Ethan’s eyes pick up the flashlight’s gleam, flashing molten gold. “And if they try anything again, their luck’ll run out.”

I pray he’s right. Because looking around this pasture, it feels as if my luck is running out…along with any future I hoped to have here. And although I try, it’s hard to muster up any real optimism when I say, “Maybe Kyle will find some evidence to pin on them this time.”

But it looks like I’ll be doing some kissing this morning, after all. Wearing a frustrated scowl, Ethan shakes his head. His voice is a low growl as he tells me, “He won’t. Because there’s not a goddamn thing here.”

And I kiss my optimism goodbye.

6

ETHAN

I SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE.

This isn’t the first time guilt and regret have eaten holes in my gut. I was deployed overseas when my family was killed. But even though it wasn’t rational, guilt rode me hard for years. I couldn’t have known what would happen to them. Hell, wolfkin being murdered like they were didn’t even seem in the realm of possibility. But it was still a long time before I let go of that guilt. Mostly let it go.

I can’t let it go this time. I knew Makena was in trouble. What I heard last night didn’t lead me to expect this much trouble…but it doesn’t fucking matter what I expected. I knew there was a threat, my instincts were roaring at me to watch over her, yet I went back to the motel instead of heading to the ranch. I can’t even remember why I resisted coming out here. Except that showing up at her place at three in the morning wouldn’t have been acceptable by human standards. But if I’d been here—in her bed, in the bunkhouse, or even sleeping in my truck on the side of the road—I’d have smelled or heard what was happening. I’d have stopped the bastards. And her troubles would have been over.

So from this moment forward, fuck acceptable. Fuck human standards. If she doesn’t want me touching her, that’s one thing. I’ll hold back for as long as she wants me to, even if holding back kills me. But protecting her is another thing altogether, and I won’t fight my instincts again.

Because Makena’s hurting right now. Though she’s not showing it, despair and fear are coming off her in heavy waves. And it’s destroying me.

I should have been here.

And although I’m here now, I’ve never felt so goddamn useless. The only real help I’ve given her so far is to let her borrow my cell phone so she can call the sheriff. While she strides off across the pasture, trying to find a bar of reception, I search for a scent. I smell cattle and manure and blood and dirt and grass. I smell Makena and the male odor that I’m assuming is either her uncle or the ranch hand who quit, because it’s the same scent from inside her truck. But despite hunkering down and sniffing the sledgehammer’s handle, I get nothing else.

That doesn’t make any damn sense. Even if the bastard wore gloves, there’d be some lingering odor. And if he used one of those scent-masking products that hunters use, I’m not a deer who can be fooled by that shit. Those sprays don’t erase scent, they just overwhelm the human odor. So I’d be smelling the spray. But there’s nothing.

Just like there wasn’t at any of the other crime scenes where wolfkin were killed.

I don’t suspect there’s any connection. This slaughter isn’t anything like what happened to my family or the other wolfkin. They were killed with bullets, not a sledgehammer. But that lack of scent has been eating at me for a decade. So if I discover why there’s no scent…that might be the first real clue I’ve found in years, and one that might help me hunt the fuckers.

But it’s also a clue that essentially blinds me here. When I saw the cattle lying on the ground, I figured that I’d have Makena’s troubles cleared up within hours. I’d smell who did it and track them down. Instead I’ve got nothing to give her.

Except a phone, because she left hers at the house. She finally gets a connection near the river and puts in a couple of calls, then she starts making her way back.

And fucking hell, she’s beautiful. That’s not instinct or magic or whatever is drawing me toward her so hard. That’s a bare fact. Last night I thought she was gorgeous, but I also thought that I’d seen other women who looked just as fine. But last night she was all sweetness and heat. So that was before I saw her midnight eyes go flat and wary while she contemplated the pros and cons of hiring me, and I learned that for all her sweetness, she’s no pushover. That was before I saw those long, sleek legs race toward an unknown threat despite the fear that had taken hold of her. That was before I discovered the heat isn’t just in her kiss, and that she’s got just as much fire in her temper, when she told me to get the fuck out of her way. And the way she holds herself, her chin up and shoulders so straight, even after the weight of the world has dropped on them, leaves me in no doubt just how strong she is. So, yeah—her face and figure are damn fine, but it’s the personality coming through that’s pushing her over into sublime.

Now the early morning sun catches the curling edges of her hair and turns them gold, but it’s just gilding a lily. Nothing could make her more stunning than she already is, and I can’t stop myself from watching her. The despair that hung over her has eased up. Her anger’s still there as her gaze sweeps the pasture, but it’s cooling into determination.

Her focus lands on my face as she comes nearer—then her gaze skitters away, her full lips tightening. I’ve got a sense that she doesn’t like the way I look at her, but fuck me if I can help it. I’m just no good at concealing what I feel.

She stops to check on the water level in the mobile tub before giving me back my phone—carefully, as if making certain our fingers don’t touch. “The sheriff will be here in about a half hour.”

I already know. But I can’t say that I could hear her talking to him from a few hundred yards away, so I just nod.

“And I think you’re wrong,” she continues, turning to survey the field again. “I think there is some evidence left behind.”

Something I missed? “What’s that?”

“Them.” She indicates the dead cows with a lift of her chin. “I’ve never killed a steer with a sledgehammer, but I’ve got a decent idea of how much damage I could do if I hit one. Especially if I only got in one blow, the way it looks like happened here.”

Vague unease lifts the hairs at the back of my neck. A cow’s skull is hard as hell. Yet the mess out here looks as if a man took a sledgehammer to a bunch of watermelons. It took strength to do that. Strength like mine.

But I don’t smell wolfkin or bearkin. I don’t smell a damn thing.

“I don’t know who could do that,” she continues. “Obviously not a machine, because there’s no tracks through the grass. But I’m guessing the list of people who can swing a sledgehammer that hard is pretty short.”

Damn short. That list would include me and whoever did this. And that means the threat to Makena is a whole lot more dangerous than I assumed.

A growl rumbles up from my chest as the vague unease I’m feeling takes solid form. Something’s out there—not bearkin or wolfkin—but it’s as strong as me and it’s targeting Makena. Instantly the overwhelming thought in my head is protect her.

Only sheer will crushes the instinct to transform. Still I feel the sharp edges of my teeth against my tongue. When my hands clench into fists, my claws pierce my palms.

My eyes are likely burning gold, but the daylight gives me some cover when she glances my way and asks, “What do you think?”

“I think you’re right. I also think it’s a damn good thing I came looking for a job today.”

A faint smile curves her mouth, but her steady gaze turns speculative. “I called Bill Weathering after I called Kyle.”

I nod, because I already heard it all. Bill told her that he’d rehire me in a hot minute.

She gives me a doubtful look. “After seeing all this, you’re certain you don’t want to take off?”

“I’m real certain that I don’t.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I don’t.”

That answer sounds like more of a growl than words, but it finally seems to convince her. She nods, and her chest lifts on a deep breath that she slowly lets out while surveying the cows again. “I’m meeting Kyle at the house. So I’ll head back now, get dressed, and then I’ll bring him down this way. Are you okay with staying here and getting this tub drained and moved?”

“If I’m not, you sure as hell shouldn’t be hiring me.”

This time her smile has a wry edge. “Maybe I shouldn’t be. But I am. And we’ll do the paperwork and make everything official later today, but since you’re already working…” Her dark eyes are alight as she holds out her hand, the morning sun glinting off her rings. “Welcome to Riverbend Ranch, Ethan.”

I’ve never been so damn eager to shake a woman’s hand. To feel her skin again. So I hold myself under tight control as I clasp her palm to mine, bracing myself against the simmering arousal that I expect to flare into burning need.

That’s the only reason I don’t fall to my knees screaming.

Pain rips through me, shearing through my nerves, followed by weakness like I’ve never known. Terror joins it, because the change always happens in times like this. When my human form is in pain, the instinctive protection of my warrior form breaks through my skin. Immediately I battle the transformation…but there’s nothing there to fight. As if the wolfkin part of me is gone, ripped away by the touch of her hand, leaving an empty hollow nothing behind.

Sour fear and sickness shoot up my throat. I pull my hand back, barely stopping myself from shaking like a leaf, from puking on her boots. Immediately the agony eases, that hollow space filling in, but I don’t feel like myself. Instead of a wolfkin, instead of a warrior, I’m more like a trembling dog crawling on his belly.

Makena frowns up at me, her face lined with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” It’s low and thick. “Maybe breathed in too many antifreeze fumes last night.”

“Or maybe I shouldn’t have hustled you down here without getting food and coffee into you first,” she says, but Makena’s no fool. She knows that missing a single meal wouldn’t affect a man my size. Her gaze continues searching my face as she offers, “I’ll bring you back something to eat. How do you take your coffee?”

I don’t. It tastes like shit and caffeine does nothing. But I’m guessing she’ll worry less if she can do something she thinks will help. “With a load of cream and sugar,” I tell her. “But I’m all right.”

“Just like you were last night?” she asks softly, and I realize that she’s thinking of how dizzy I got when she stopped beside my truck. She believes this is the same thing. “Look, Ethan—if you’ve got a medical condition, that’s fine. I’ll still hire you. But I don’t want to ask you to do any work that might be harmful to your health, so you need to tell me if something’s going on.”

A medical condition? A rough laugh escapes me. I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any, but I won’t lie to her. “I’m all right,” I tell her—and I am. Weak as fuck, a little shaky, but feeling whole again. “I’ll get this done.”

Judging by the way she gives me another once-over, as if expecting me to keel over, Makena’s not convinced. But she doesn’t keep pushing. Instead she just tells me that she’ll be back soon, then heads off toward her truck.

I watch her go, feeling steadier but with my mind reeling. What the fuck just happened? It wasn’t because I touched her. I kissed her last night and didn’t feel as if my soul had been ripped out of me. So it’s something else. Something I can’t even guess at. My brain turns it over and over, and gets absolutely nowhere.

But one thing’s for damn sure: whatever slaughtered all these cattle is as strong as I am—or maybe stronger—and I’m not letting Makena face it alone. It’ll have to kill me before it gets to her. Whatever it is. Some other kind of magic being, maybe.

And it occurs to me that if the same magic is the reason touching her almost brought me to my knees…then killing me might be easier than I ever believed.

7

MAKENA

ANTSY TO GET BACK to the pasture, I lock the dogs in the house and head outside as soon as I see the sheriff’s vehicle coming up the drive. When Kyle pulls up beside the spot where I’m standing, he doesn’t get out of the rig, just rolls down his window. His eyes are still puffy with sleep and his auburn hair sticks up in all directions. “Carrie’s about fifteen minutes away,” is the first thing he says.

I’m only surprised that she’s not in the vehicle with him. My early-morning call obviously woke him up, but maybe she slept through it. “You need coffee? I’ll pour you one before we go.”

“That’s why Carrie’s late. She’s bringing some.”

“Should we wait, then?”

“She’ll catch up.” His gaze falls to the camera in my hand. “Is that for the insurance?”

“Partly.” I have livestock insurance that covers loss due to natural causes like drought or blizzards. I have other insurance that protects against theft. But I suspect both will try to wriggle out of reimbursing me for this, so I probably have a battle ahead. “But also for the water quality board. I’ll document the disposal so I have something to show them if they get more complaints about us.”

Like they have recently. First about the amount of manure running off into the river from my spread, though I’m far under the limit. Then about a pesticide I was supposedly spraying—and that was also bullshit. But proving both took time and money…and I’ve got a damn good idea where those complaints came from.

So does Kyle. His mouth thins, and he says, “They’re just hoping to wear you down.”

I know it. “I guess someone decided it wasn’t wearing me down fast enough. You want me to run you through how we found the herd before we head out?”

“No. As an investigative professional, I prefer to look at the scene with virginal eyes, so that my observations remain uncorrupted by your amateur assumptions.”

I crack a smile at that. He might be sheriff now, but he’s still the same dork I met in kindergarten. “Oh, joy. My very own Hercule Poirot is on the case. I’ll lead the way.”

Kyle follows my truck down the cattle alley—and doubts assail me the entire drive. Only yesterday, I thought MDC had a long way to go before they could make me consider selling. But if they keep this up, they might wear me down faster than I believed possible. Because it’s not just losing the cattle, though that’s bad enough. And it’s not the money, though that hurts, too.

Instead it’s the worry that’s getting to me. I really didn’t think they’d go this far. But they have. And now I don’t know if there’s any limit to how far they’ll go. If they hurt Jonas—or Ethan, since he seems determined to stay—how could I live with myself after? Even knowing that I wouldn’t be to blame, that it would be MDC at fault, that wouldn’t stop the guilt from eating me alive. And all the guilt in the world wouldn’t change the fact that two people were hurt because I was so stubborn. That’s all I can think about now—the worry that I’m risking their lives.

And I know Kyle would say that I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. That this might not be MDC at all. But he must be thinking the same thing I am, even as he’s trying to stay objective. So I pray there’s something linking the slaughter to MDC. Just a tiny shred of evidence. But I don’t hold out much hope. They’ve been good at covering their asses so far. This probably won’t be any different.

Hell, because they are so good at covering their asses, a lack of evidence here would be a strong indication that they’re responsible. But not one that Kyle could do anything about.

Ethan must have heard us coming, because as I round the bend, his tall figure is heading toward the pasture gate. And there’s another worry. No matter how much Ethan denies that he’s sick, something’s going on. If it’s a medical condition, I don’t want to pry—but I also don’t want him to get hurt.

At least he seems steady now. He’s got the gate open by the time we reach him, so I slow up once we’re through and wait for him to get in. He loads up into the passenger seat and his broad chest lifts on a deep inhalation.

“It smells damn good in here.”

“I made up breakfast burritos, since they’re easiest to handle out here,” I tell him and slide the paper bag his way. “Egg, cheese, potato—and I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian, so there’s one with sausage and one with avocado. I’ll eat whichever one you don’t.”

“I’m not a vegetarian.” Amusement deepens his voice and his whiskey-brown eyes sparkle with laughter. “But are you sure you want that mushy green stuff? I can choke it down if—”

“I like that mushy green stuff. There’s hot sauce in there, too.”

“Tabasco? That settles it.” He pulls out the bottle and a thick burrito wrapped in foil. “You’re the most perfect woman who ever walked this earth.”

I ignore the warmth that steals into my belly. “Actually, my uncle is. He’s the one who cooked all the ingredients for me and left them in the fridge, because he worries that I don’t eat when he’s gone. Your coffee’s in that Thermos. I made it Chris Evans-style, as requested.”

Already biting into the burrito, he cocks an eyebrow in question.

“Extra sweet and super white,” I tell him, but I guess he’s not a fan of Captain America because that eyebrow just goes higher. Grinning, I slow the truck as we near the grazing patch. “So, no avocados. Does that mean you don’t like guacamole? What kind of monster are you?”

Eyes narrowing, Ethan swallows and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Guacamole’s just fine.”

“What’s the difference, then? It’s still green and mushy.”

“It’s a different mushy. Less slimy.”

I laugh. “So you’re okay with green and mushy if it’s mashed? What about guacamole made from mashed peas?”

That stops Ethan in the middle of another bite. Turning his head, he looks at me as if green slime started pouring out of my eyeballs. “Who the hell would make that?”

Which is exactly what I asked when Carrie told me about it. “A friend informed me yesterday that it’s a new thing with some food bloggers.”

“Then I’d rather be a monster than some online Betty Crocker.”

“I’m pretty sure whoever came up with that recipe is the real monster.” But our bit of shared levity comes to an end when I pull up in front of the electric fence. As I’m looking at the dead animals lying in the grass, all my worry dumps into my lap again. “Or the monster is whoever did this.”

“Makena.”

My name sounds like a low, rumbling growl and pulls my gaze away from the pasture ahead. Ethan’s intense golden stare is leveled on my face, his rugged features made up of stark angles and hollows that seem set in stone.

His voice gentles as he says, “Some people, you add pressure and heat, and they crumble. But do it to others, and they turn into a diamond. I got a feeling you’re one of them diamonds. So when you start worrying that these fuckers will wear you down, I’ll be right here to remind you of that—and to help you stop them. All right?”

My chest tight, I can only nod. Kyle pulls up beside us and I do my best to work the lump from my throat before getting out. Though Kyle doesn’t say a word, I know his face well enough to see all the questions he wants to ask as Ethan comes around from the passenger side.

I make the introductions. “Ethan, this is Sheriff Kyle McKinley—and a good friend of mine. Kyle, this is Ethan…”

Ah, shit. I have no idea what his last name is. But Ethan smoothly fills in “Grimmson” while sticking out his big hand. Kyle’s about the same height as me and built like a bull. Yet next to Ethan, he almost looks small—and his hand is engulfed in Ethan’s grip.

I can’t mistake the look Kyle slides me during that handshake. He wants to know what the hell I’m thinking.

So I tell him. “Ethan’s rig broke down last night and I gave him a lift. He’s looking for temporary work while he’s in town, and since I’m shorthanded now that Julio’s gone, we thought we’d help each other out for a bit.”

Kyle nods, though I can see he’s still got a lot to say—he just won’t say it while Ethan can hear him. With a grim expression, he turns to survey the pasture. “Did you move anything?”

“Just the herd and the water tub. And you’ll want to take a look near where the tub was sitting”—I point in the direction of the sledgehammer—“because I’m pretty sure they left the weapon there.”

Kyle frowns at me. “But you moved the tub?”

I shrug, because he’s got good reason to be irritated but there’s not much I can do about it. “My herd needs water. And cows don’t care about investigations or evidence.”

He accepts that with another short nod. “All right. I’m going to have a look around. I’ll have some questions after, so don’t go anywhere.”

Not sure where we’d go. “Don’t worry. We’re just going to sit here and have our breakfast and wait for your wife to show up.”

A few minutes later, Ethan and I have the tailgate down and are using it as a seat, with the morning sun warming our backs. I shake hot sauce onto my burrito and watch Kyle slowly make his way across the field. He stops here and there, taking pictures and scribbling in a little notebook.

Beside me, Ethan polishes off the last of his breakfast and picks up his coffee. “Is he married to the town librarian?”

That’s so unexpected, it takes me a second to process. “You mean Carrie?”

“I don’t know her name. She only said that she’s the librarian and the mayor.”

“That’s Carrie,” I confirm, but I’m still confused. “And she told you that she was married to the sheriff? Why would it even come up? Were you trying to kiss her, too?”

It rolls off my tongue as a joke, but jealousy squirms through my stomach the second I say it. Ethan’s gaze cuts to my face, his brows lowering and shadowing his golden stare.

“There’s only one woman I’m interested in kissing, Makena. And it isn’t your friend.”

That jealousy melts into sweet liquid heat. Averting my gaze from his, I take a huge bite instead of responding, and hope he thinks the warmth in my cheeks is just from the Tabasco.

“Before she gets here, I ought to tell you that I lied to her.”

I freeze mid-chew, and my gaze shoots back to meet his grim expression.

He nods, as if answering my silent question. “I ran into her yesterday and told her I was a writer.”

A pit opens up in my stomach, and it doesn’t seem to fill even after I forcibly swallow the giant lump of food in my mouth. “You were the one asking about my parents?”

“I was.”

I feel sick. “Why?”

He seems to flinch at the betrayal and accusation loaded into that word. Then his jaw tightens, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. For a long second he’s silent and still, and I realize that he wouldn’t have said anything about this if Carrie wasn’t on her way. If he wasn’t about to get caught in his lie. And that he took this job obviously hoping that, after winning my trust, he might get me to start talking about how my parents were killed.

What was it he said? I’m not here for the job, Makena. I’m here for you. Even though I have no intention of hopping into bed with him, when he told me that I felt…incredible.

I’m so stupid. And feeling even stupider when tears sting my eyes and I have to look away.

How can I let this hurt me? It should mean nothing. He should mean nothing.

“Makena, don’t—” A desolate note hoarsens his voice. He breaks off and removes his hat, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Fuck.”

I don’t say a damn thing, because I’ve got nothing to say to him.

Then he says, “My family was murdered eleven years ago,” and my gaze flies to his face. This time he’s not looking at me, but staring out over the pasture, his profile a study in stony grief. “I’ve been trying to find who did it ever since. But the hunt’s been going nowhere, so I decided to start looking at anyone else who was killed around the same time—especially if it was under unusual circumstances.”

It’s so much to take in, I can’t sort out my reaction. But one overwhelming feeling rises up above the others, because I know exactly how much pain is behind all that grief. That’s something we have in common.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” I tell him softly.

He acknowledges my sympathy with a short nod. His throat works before he continues, “My brother, too. And later, some other people we knew.” His gaze meets mine again, his eyes burning fiercely gold. “But I swear I didn’t know you were the Laines’ daughter when you helped me out last night. Or when I kissed you.”

Or the first time he turned down the job. “But you knew when you came back this morning?”

His mouth flattens before he admits, “I did.”

The heavy stone that has settled on my chest seems to expand. “No need for me to hire you, then. I’ll just tell you what happened to them.”

“I already know. I asked around,” he explains when I flick a questioning glance at him. “That’s also when I heard about the trouble you’ve had. That’s why I’m here, Makena. To help you out. I wasn’t lying then.”

“Or when you said that you intended to leave town this morning?”

“That was my intention—to keep looking for who killed them. But I’ll wait until this is all sorted out.” He jerks his chin, gesturing toward the cattle lying on the ground.

“You don’t need to,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I do.”

His tone is flatly uncompromising, and I don’t have enough fight in me right now to argue. “So is there anything else you’ve lied to me about?”

“I lied to your friend, not to you.”

“Don’t split hairs. You knew who I was this morning but you still concealed your reason for coming to Fortune City. So are you keeping any other secrets that I should know about?”

An abrupt, humorless laugh escapes him. He drags his fingers through his hair again before replacing his hat, shadowing his eyes. Gruffly he says, “You’re better off not knowing the secrets I’ve got.”

I’d rather decide that for myself. But now’s not the time. Kyle’s heading back this way, so I scarf down the rest of my breakfast before he reaches the fence.

“I suppose he’ll want to talk to me first,” I tell Ethan. Leaving him at the truck, I head over and catch up to Kyle as he ducks under the electric wire.

“Holy shit, Makena,” he says, his expression somber. “You’ve got a hell of a mess.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“This actually works the other way around. I need you to fill in what I don’t know.” He flips over a page in his little notebook. “So run me through. When’s the last time you checked in on the herd?”

“Last night. Around…nine o’clock, I guess.”

“You were all the way down here that late?”

“After what happened with the fences, Jonas started camping out in the hills. But on nights he didn’t, we made sure to drive down here before bed. So that’s what I did last night after Ethan fixed his radiator hose. I left him, then I came down this way before going back home.”

With the dogs whimpering and me still recovering from Ethan’s earth-shattering kiss.

“You drive through the pasture or take the road?”

“The road.” Which runs alongside our pasture and continues on past Sam Rudder’s old place, then narrows into a dirt lane when it hits federal land. Beyond that, there’s nothing else.

Kyle glances across the pasture toward the road. “That’s a good distance. It’s pretty dark by nine. You sure you could see the difference between a cow that’s lying down and chewing its cud and one that’s dead?”

“I’m sure. The dogs and I got out and walked the fence all the way down to the river.”

“Did you see anyone drive by on the road after that?”

“No. And I was awake until three or so.” With the road visible from my bedroom window. “The dogs were quiet all night, too.”

“Awake that late?” His brows rise and he flicks a glance behind me—toward Ethan. “Did you have an overnight guest?”

“No.” I narrow my eyes, silently warning him not to go there. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

His lips twitch. “Don’t give me that look. I need to make sure we’ve got a solid timeline. If you were distracted by company, that’s not solid.”

Fair enough. “No one drove this way before three. I’m sure of that.”

“And what time did you wake up?”

“Five.” Same as always. “I went to the barn to do my chores, and at five-thirty Ethan showed up and we discussed his employment. And that’s when he, uh…smelled what happened.”

“Smelled what?”

“Smelled the blood.” My cheeks heat because I know how it sounds. And although I understand the incredulous look Kyle’s giving me, I was there. I saw it happen. “He said the wind shifted. And the dogs seemed to smell something, too. So…” I trail off with a shrug. “We came here and found them.”

“So let me get this right. You were at the house, this Grimmson fellow says he smelled blood from over a mile away, and you hightail it down here to discover that twenty-five cows have been slaughtered in a way that only a big man with a hell of a swing could do.”

Everything within me freezes as I grasp his meaning. “You think he did this?”

“I wouldn’t jump that far ahead.” His voice lowers. “But it seems like a heck of a coincidence that on the same day that MDC runs off Julio, this guy shows up looking for a job. I also think it’s pretty damn strange that he was heading down this road before he broke down, even though there’s nothing out here but your ranch, some MDC property, and federal lands. So I’m not saying he did this, because the truth is, I’m not sure even a man of his size could manage it. That’s a question I’ll put to forensics when I give them that sledgehammer. What I am saying is that it seems far more likely that he already knew what happened to your herd, and he pretended to smell something so that you’d have reason to come down here and find them.”

My stomach roils. My brain tries to reject everything Kyle said, but I can’t deny the logic of it. “You think MDC put him up to this? That doesn’t seem like their style.”

“It doesn’t. But their style wasn’t working on you. So maybe they changed it up.”

God. It makes sense. But it still doesn’t fit. “He turned down the job at first,” I tell him. “Why would he do that if MDC wanted him here?”

“Maybe I’m wrong. But there’s something about him—and something about this whole situation—that just doesn’t feel right.” A concerned frown digs furrows into his forehead as he continues, “And I can’t ignore the fact that Carrie told me someone came into the library asking about you. Someone whose description matches your new employee.”

“He already told me about that,” I say and my voice sounds hollow.

Kyle looks surprised. “When did he tell you?”

“Just a few minutes ago. When he realized Carrie was coming. He says his family was murdered around the same time my parents were killed. And he’s still trying to figure out what happened to his.”

“So he realizes that he’s about to get his ass busted in a lie, and tells a story guaranteed to soften someone who lost her family?”

Shit. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force my brain into order. Because put like that…I should have been more suspicious. But the simple truth is— “I believe him,” I say quietly. “You didn’t see him and hear him. I did. And he had references.”

“References? Do you have them on you?”

I drag them out of my pocket and hand them over. “I’ve already called one—Bill Weathering. Ethan was working at his place until last week, and Bill vouched for him. But I’ve still got the rest of the names to go through.”

Kyle knows Bill, too, and I can see this news pulls the bit out of his teeth, makes him reconsider the direction he was heading. His gaze skims the paper. “All right. I’ll return this to you in a minute, but I want a copy later.”

“Just take a picture of it.”

“That’ll work, too.” He pulls out his phone, aims the camera at the list of names. “Do you keep a sledgehammer in this part of the pasture—for driving in posts or whatnot?”

“No. That one was in my uncle’s workshop, last I knew.”

“You’re sure it’s Jonas’s?” When I nod, he asks, “When’s the last time you saw it?”

“I couldn’t say. Months ago, but it might have been in the shop and I just didn’t pay attention. You’ll need to ask Jonas.”

“I will. Who has access to the shop?”

“Just him and me and Julio, usually. But I forgot to lock it up again last night after Ethan got the radiator hose he needed, so it could have been anyone.”

Kyle’s mouth thins. “Grimmson was in there?”

God. I see where he’s going with this, and my stomach twists into knots. Here I am thinking anyone could have taken it from the shop, and Kyle’s pointing out that there’s an obvious someone. “Yes.”

“Were you in there with him?”

“Only for a second while I told him where to look. Then I went up to the barn.”

“So he might have had a good idea of where a sledgehammer was, and knew that the shop might still be unlocked?”

Feeling too sick to reply, I simply nod.

“It might not mean a damn thing, Makena.” His voice reassuring, Kyle grips my shoulder, squeezes lightly. “But either way, I’ll look out for you. So let’s go talk to him.”

8

MAKENA

THE SUN’S in my eyes when we walk back toward the truck. Knowing that harsh light will reveal everything on my face, it’s all I can do to keep the turmoil inside me out of my expression. Ethan’s waiting for us where I left him, his boots planted on the ground and casually sitting back against the edge of the lowered tailgate. I don’t meet his gaze as we come nearer, but slip past him and grab my coffee—not needing the drink as much as I need something to hold onto.

His tone conversational, Kyle asks, “So you had some engine trouble last night?”

“I did.”

I can’t help it. Just the sound of his gruff voice pulls my gaze to Ethan’s face—and he’s watching me, his eyes searching mine as if looking for some hint of what I’m thinking. He doesn’t glance away even as Kyle continues.

“Was that your F-150 up in Makena’s yard, the one with Montana plates?”

“It is.”

I can’t bear that intense, piercing stare—or the way it seems Ethan’s trying to tell me without words that he didn’t have a damn thing to do with any of this. But that’s probably just me projecting onto him what I want to be true. Just like every time he looks my way, I see in his eyes everything I want a man to feel for me. So he doesn’t even need to fool me; I’m doing a fine job of fooling myself.

Chest aching, I avert my face to escape that stare and look blindly out over the pasture, but my entire focus is on the conversation taking place beside me.

“Where were you headed when you broke down?”

“Nowhere. I left town after talking to your wife in the library, then spent some time hiking through the hills a mile or two southwest of here. When I got back to my truck, I decided to take a drive along the river and get a feel of the place.”

“Apparently you’ve got a good nose, Mr. Grimmson.”

That unexpected change in subject brings my gaze swinging back around in surprise, but Ethan doesn’t seem fazed at all. He silently regards Kyle with his eyes narrowed slightly, as if considering something.

A second later he says, “Good enough to know that you’ve got two cats at home, Sheriff. And that you used rose soap this morning, maybe because you like the scent, but more probably because you and your wife were rushing after Makena’s call and you jumped in the shower together, and her scent’s all over you, too.”

My mouth drops open and my gaze darts to Kyle’s face—who is doing a lot better than I am concealing his reaction.

Blandly he asks, “Is that all you can tell me?”

“Not even near to it,” Ethan drawls. “But if you really want to know, rose isn’t my favorite. I’m partial to coconut oil and shea butter.”

Both of which I use every day. My heart thumps wildly and I hastily turn away from him again, but this time my chest isn’t hurting. Instead I’m trying to hide the astonishment and relief tumbling around inside me. Because there are other questions and doubts…but the most unbelievable part of everything he’s said—that he smelled blood from so far away—maybe isn’t so unbelievable after all.

And Kyle doesn’t ask anything more about Ethan’s incredible sense of smell, but he’s not done. “Makena tells me you found a hose to repair your truck in her uncle’s workshop.”

“I did.”

“How long were in you inside the shop?”

“About a minute, maybe. Then I went outside to play with the dogs.”

“Did you notice a sledgehammer in the shop?”

“Can’t say I did.”

“And after you played with the dogs?”

“Makena came out from the barn and drove me back to my truck. It took maybe twenty minutes to replace the hose.”

And a few more minutes to kiss me as if I was everything. To tenderly cup my face in his hands while his big body pushed me up against the side of my truck until I could feel every hard inch of him.

A delicious little tremor races through me at the memory. I feel Ethan studying my face again, but resolutely avoid meeting his eyes.

“Where’d you go after you made those repairs?”

“Back to town.” As if he’s remembering the same breathless moments against my truck, his voice seems lower, rougher—but this time I don’t let it pull my gaze to him. Not that it matters. I might not see him, but every other part of me feels attuned to every breath he takes, every shift in his tone, every gesture that he makes. “I parked my truck in the Ponderosa’s lot and walked to the nearest tavern.”

“Which one? There’s a couple of bars within walking distance.”

“I don’t think I ever noted the name of it. But it was the same one Makena was in earlier that day.”

What? I look to Ethan and then to Kyle, who raises his brows. “The Silver Dollar,” I tell him.

Kyle nods and writes that down. “How’d you know she was there? You smell that, too?”

Humor and skepticism are loaded into the question, but Ethan answers as if Kyle were serious. “Sure I did. But even if I hadn’t, her being there came up in conversation.”

“Conversation with who?”

“The bartender and one of Makena’s old neighbors—Sam. I talked to them both for a while, and Sam mentioned seeing her earlier.”

“I did see Sam when I met Carrie there,” I confirm.

Kyle nods. “And what else did you talk to them about, Mr. Grimmson?”

“About Makena,” he says bluntly. “Something she said while helping me out with my truck made me wonder if she was having troubles. So I asked them about it.”

“And you asked about her parents, too?”

“I did.” His gaze locks on mine and this time I can’t look away. “Finding out what killed them is why I came to Fortune City. But it’s not why I’m staying.”

I know that’s directed to me, not to Kyle. It’s the same claim that he made before. But I don’t trust myself enough—or trust him enough—to believe it yet. And whatever Ethan’s looking for in response, I can’t give it.

“How long were you at the Silver Dollar?”

“I left at two, when it closed. I went to the motel and was in bed until five, when I checked out and drove here.”

“And can anyone verify that you were in the hotel from two to five?”

I catch the glance Kyle gives me as he asks. Two to five. Almost exactly the same time window that this slaughter likely happened in, since I was awake until three and probably would have noticed someone coming up the driveway and stealing a sledgehammer from the workshop. But even after I was asleep, I can’t figure out why the dogs didn’t put up a racket when someone came that close to the house.

If it had been Ethan sneaking into the workshop, they probably would have. Just like they started barking like mad when he drove up this morning. But not a peep from them all night.

Ethan’s jaw clenches, then he shakes his head. “I didn’t see or talk to anyone until I checked out at the front desk. Though if the Ponderosa has cameras, they’d show that I didn’t leave and my truck didn’t move.”

With brows shooting high, Kyle asks, “You think a place like the Ponderosa has cameras?”

Ethan’s grim silence answers for him.

Kyle smiles thinly. “I’d say that’s pretty damn convenient if someone wanted to say they were in one place when they were really in another, wouldn’t you?”

“Not particularly convenient, no,” Ethan says, “considering that a camera could confirm that I didn’t go anywhere.”

“Uh-huh.” Absently Kyle scratches the side of his jaw. “Lucky for me, the bank across the street has a good angle on the exterior of that motel, and records people going in and out of their rooms. You want to change anything about what you just told me before I go ask the manager to let me take a look at his security tapes?”

Ethan’s eyes gleam. “Not a damn thing.”

The tight band of tension around my chest eases. If everything Ethan said checks out, then his whereabouts will be accounted for throughout the entire night. And I know Kyle will follow up with those cameras and with Sam and Larry at the bar.

Ethan’s response seems to satisfy Kyle, too. He flips his notebook closed. “Anything else you want to tell me before I go confirm all this? Maybe you can explain why your references show that, in the past two years alone, you’ve had ten different jobs in four states. You sure don’t stay long in any one place.”

“I don’t,” Ethan agrees.

Oh god. Kyle’s not asking this because of my cows, I realize, but because he’s looking out for me. But before I can say anything, he makes a hmmph sound and scans the sheet of references again. “You’ve got a few gaps of time in here. You spend them in jail?”

Ethan actually grins. “I’ve spent my share of nights behind bars. When you run a search on my name, you’ll find plenty of arrests. But they were all cleared. I’ve never been formally charged or convicted, or lost a job because of it.”

I stare at him. He said that so easily, as if it was nothing. No, less than nothing. Almost a joke. “But you’ve been in jail?”

“A handful of times, yeah.”

So matter of fact. No shame in sight. But I’m squirming because I didn’t think to ask this already. Not that I’ve had much time to ask anything this morning, but I hate being blindsided like this. “What for?”

“Usually because if I see someone being an asshole, I’m inclined to tell him to stop. Then those assholes usually take a swing at me. So I swing back—just a bit harder. After that, their friends often get into it, too.” His unwavering gaze holds mine while he answers. “But no drugs and no stealing, if that’s what you’re thinking. A couple of those incidents took place while I was employed by the people listed there. You ask about what happened, I’m sure they’ll tell you how it was. And from what I’ve seen, Makena, you can use someone who stands up to assholes and isn’t afraid to swing back.”

I suppose that’s the truth. But I don’t know how to respond. I’m still trying to wrap my head around this new info.

Kyle isn’t having the same dilemma. “Maybe she needs someone like that. Or maybe she is that person—and her uncle is, too. So maybe you’ll only make more trouble for her.”

“You think I’d do that?” That feral edge returns to Ethan’s gaze as he regards the other man. After a long second, he pulls out his wallet, takes out a card. “You want to know anything about me, you call Brian Waters. He’s the police chief over in Kalispell and was a good friend to my parents. He knows every step I’ve taken while looking for who killed them and my brother. And those time gaps you were asking about—those were me moving around, chasing different leads. Some of those leads, Brian helped dig up.”

Kyle takes the card. “I’ll be calling first thing.”

“You do that. And being a lawman, you’ve likely already heard something about their murders. Eleven years ago, up in the Kootenai forest, three people were shot and left for dead. Same last name as mine. That was my mother, my father, and my brother. It’s still an open case. And it caused a hell of a stir among law enforcement in the area, because they were a fire chief, a county sheriff, and—”

“A state trooper,” Kyle finishes, recognition dawning on his face. “All of them related. That was your family?”

“They were,” Ethan confirms grimly. “So you look into me, because that’s what you’ve got to do. But if you care about Makena, don’t make the mistake of trying to run me off. Because you want me standing between her and whoever the fuck did this.”

Between us? “Oh, hell no!” I burst in. “I don’t want anyone playing hero or being my shield.”

I might as well not even be here. Kyle and Ethan are having some kind of testosterone-fueled silent showdown. Since Kyle is the first to look away, I guess Ethan took gold in the Overbearing Caveman Olympics. Whoo. What a victory.

Disgusted with them both, I scoff and shake my head. I understand what they’re doing—especially Kyle, because as my friend of course he’ll have my back—and I appreciate that they’re both willing to help. But that’s also Kyle’s job as sheriff. Standing between me and a threat isn’t Ethan’s job. And I should damn well know, because I’ll write his job description. If I hire him after all this.

I’m not sure if I should. Not only because of the uncertainty regarding his past, but also because I don’t want to be responsible for a man who’s determined to throw himself in front of me. It’s true he helped me out this morning—but since I helped him out last night, I think it’d be fair to call us even and then send him off, good luck, no hard feelings.

But I can hold off on that decision until Kyle confirms everything Ethan told us.

“There’s Carrie,” Kyle says.

I glance back at the cattle alley. Her Jeep is just rounding the bend, but as fast as she’s driving, it won’t take her long to get here.

Kyle looks to me. “When’s Jonas getting back, Makena? I’ll have a few questions for him, too.”

“Tonight. He’s probably on the road right now.” I sigh and scrub my hands over my face. “Shit. I still have to call him and tell him.”

And he’ll likely spend the entire drive home beating himself up for not being here.

“You ask him to think about whether that sledgehammer was in the shop when he left,” Kyle says.

“I will.”

“And listen, Makena—I’ll get a team over here as fast as possible, see if we can pick up any fingerprints or tracks. But there’s no way it’ll be fast enough to keep that meat from spoiling.”

“It’s already spoiled,” I tell him. “The blood wasn’t drained, which means the meat’s good for nothing but dog food now. Literally tons of dog food. I don’t know how I’m going to get rid of it all.”

The water quality board would be all over my ass if I tried to bury this many cows on my land, because I’m sure MDC would complain about me contaminating the ground water. And I could call the renderer, but he’ll charge me a small fortune for hauling them away.

“I bet Carrie can help you with that. Just about everyone in town has a dog, and probably some room in their freezers. You let her get the word out and we’ll get people in here to take some of it off your hands. All right?”

With a heavy sigh, I nod.

“What about getting the bodies up off the ground and butchered? Do you need help with that?”

“Getting them off the ground, no. I can just use the tractor. That’s what we usually do. It’ll be slow as hell to get them all up to the yard, but—”

“I can do it,” Ethan says. “I’ll back your livestock trailer in here, drag them all into the hold, and haul that trailer back up to the barn. And since you don’t need fancy cuts of meat, I can do the butchering, too.”

“Drag them into the trailer?” I consider that. Loading them all up in the livestock trailer is a good idea, though we couldn’t use the tractor. “Yeah, I guess that would work. We could harness the horses and—”

“No horses. I can drag them into the trailer.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Some of those heifers are over fifteen hundred pounds.”

“I know.” Ethan grins, apparently unbothered by the fact that he’s been whacked with the stupid stick. “I didn’t say I’d be lifting them over my head. I’d be dragging them.”

“And I’m saying you’re crazy. Dragging is a good idea, but we’ll wait until we can get a couple more people to help.”

“Then I’ll ask Carrie to round them up, too,” Kyle says and heads off to meet her.

Ethan doesn’t even seem to notice the other man leaving. “You don’t need to ask anyone anything, not when I can just—”

“No.” My flat denial stops him. “You wait until we get more people out here and we can all haul them into the trailer together. You try it alone, you’ll throw out your back, and I’ll be dealing with a workers’ comp claim your first day on the job.”

“I’m not officially hired yet,” he reminds me with amusement in his voice, as if my concern for his health is funny—and as if, less than an hour ago, I didn’t see him staggering around and trying to claim nothing was wrong. “So I’ll do it before I sign any papers. And if I throw out my back, you can get rid of me without any trouble.”

“If you argue every time I tell you how to do something, I might get rid of you, anyway,” I snap. “I can’t afford to keep a grandstanding prick on the payroll.”

Instantly his eyes narrow and seem to turn into molten gold. His voice roughens into a growl that travels through me on a warm, rumbling path beneath my skin. “You go ahead and fire me, Makena. Doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.”

God, the way he looks at me. Once again, promising so much. But I know it doesn’t mean a damn thing, because he already said it doesn’t.

“You mean, you’re not going anywhere yet.”

His jaw hardens. He stares at me for a long second, his expression tortured until it flattens into a bleak mask. “Yeah,” he finally says gruffly. “That’s what I mean.”

And I’d be a fool to forget it.

9

ETHAN

TODAY ISN’T the first time law enforcement looked at me and my history. And I suppose if you stick your nose into their investigations, it’s only fair that they start sticking their noses into you. But today’s the first time I gave a shit about what someone might think when they started looking into me.

Listening to Makena wonder if I’d done this to her was gut-ripping torture. I sure as hell wouldn’t have blamed her for throwing me off her ranch. The way the sheriff laid out all those facts might have convinced anyone that I was responsible.

Shit. If I hadn’t known where I was, I’d have suspected me, too.

Then she pushed back and started defending me. Said she believed me about losing my family. I don’t know why that tore me up even worse—except knowing she wanted to trust me made it that much more important to never let her down. And I’ve never been afraid of much in my life…but I’m terrified of disappointing Makena Laine.

I suppose that’s why I pulled that stunt, telling the sheriff how he smelled. I’ve mentioned odors to law enforcement before but never bothered to prove it with a demonstration, because I didn’t care if they believed me or not. But seeing the relief on Makena’s face when she realized I hadn’t lied to her was worth exposing that particular ability. And the way she breathed easier and flashed me that wide grin when the sheriff told us about those cameras will be etched in my brain for the rest of my life.

Not that her doubts are gone. But she doesn’t waste any time before looking at me closer. We can’t do anything about the carcasses until the sheriff gives the all-clear, so she asks me to drive her truck up to the barn while she rides with Carrie.

And I don’t mean to listen to them talk. Not entirely. I’m used to tuning things out, especially background noise. I do my best to respect people’s privacy—which works out for everyone, because usually people discuss things that I don’t give a shit about. But Makena’s voice is something I can’t tune out, even when I try.

I’m not trying too hard, though. Someone came right up near her home last night, stole a sledgehammer out of her workshop, and slaughtered two dozen of her cattle. So the only way I’ll let her out of my sight is if she’s in hearing range.

Up at the yard, she leads me around behind the barn to a slaughtering shed that hasn’t seen much use of late, except as storage. Her tone holds a note of apology when she asks me to get it ready to handle the tons of meat about to move through here, as if this cleanup isn’t normally something she’d ask a ranch hand to do on his own, or as if the only reason she isn’t taking care of it herself is that she’s got so much else on her plate this morning. Or maybe that apology is because I’m not officially hired yet—and she’s still debating whether I will be—but she’s putting me to work, anyway. But I’d shovel shit all day if that’s what she needed. And I’d do it for free.

Her friend Carrie silently glares at me the whole time, but waits until she believes they’re out of earshot before asking Makena what the hell she’s thinking. Makena gives her the same explanation that she gave to the sheriff—that we ran into each other and decided to help one another out—and which doesn’t satisfy her friend even a bit, though Carrie backs off when Makena mentions that she’s about to call up everyone listed in my references.

At the house she lets out the dogs. Instantly they come racing over to me with their ears flopping, with Thelma carrying her pull rope and Alf bringing his tennis ball. It’s the cutest damn thing. And because there’s no sorrier sight than a dejected hound, I play with them before starting in on the shed.

It’s all mindless work, mostly just moving stuff around, and easy enough to keep an ear out for Makena. I’m only half-listening to the phone calls being made, but I’ve got to give her friend credit: Carrie could organize an army if she put her mind to it. It sounds as if she’s got the whole town mobilized by the time Makena finishes talking to my former bosses—conversations that held no surprises for me, but Makena’s voice sounds increasingly relieved after every call.

So the abrupt, groaning disbelief in her tone when she says, “For God’s sake, Carrie,” has me pivoting toward the house, my senses sharpening, my claws lengthening. “Tell me you are not Googling his family.”

Her friend’s reply doesn’t hold an ounce of apology. “Of course I am.”

“You’re pissed at him because he came asking about my parents. Now you’re doing this? So much for your moral high ground.”

“I’m pissed because he lied, not because he came looking.” There’s a brief pause before she admits, “Okay, and because he came looking.”

“I’m not mad at him for that. If I were him, I’d want answers, too. And—” Makena breaks off suddenly with a soft, “Oh no.”

The quiet that follows tells me they’re likely reading whatever article it was Carrie found. My tension eases, and I get back to work. Carrie poking into my history doesn’t concern me. Anything they find will confirm what I already told Makena.

She’s the first one to break the silence, her voice thick with sympathy. “He was deployed when it happened? God. I can’t imagine coming home to that.”

“Me, either,” is Carrie’s murmur of agreement. “And he doesn’t look so scary here.”

Makena snorts out a laugh. “You’re just a sucker for a man in uniform.”

Which tells me what they’re looking at—the military photo taken when I was in basic training. The picture ran in several of the newspaper articles, so everyone could put a face to the soldier who lost his entire family.

“True. But who isn’t a sucker for a uniform?” Carrie asks breezily before her voice turns serious again. “I’m just saying, the kid in this picture is not the same guy you hired.”

“No, he isn’t,” Makena agrees softly. “He looks so…young.”

“Like the before in a before-and-after photo.”

“Yeah.” There’s a slight hesitation, then Makena says, “I wonder if my pictures look like this, too. If I have a before and after.”

“You do,” Carrie tells her gently.

There’s another brief silence, in which I imagine Makena is absorbing that—maybe the same way I am. Before and after. They aren’t wrong. When that photo was taken, I was as full of myself as any eighteen-year-old wolfkin warrior is—and I had no idea how fucking young and stupid I really was. The army hardened me up plenty after that, though, so the picture was already four years out of date by the time it started running in the papers. But I suspect that even if someone had snapped a picture of me stepping off the plane coming back home, the difference between that grieving man and the man I am now would show a stark change—and the young boy is long gone.

“Buuuuut…” Carrie starts up again, “You haven’t changed in the same way. Your before-and-after is mostly just grief, and the weight of taking on the ranch and all those responsibilities. With him, I wonder if the before-and-after is more like Jekyll and Hyde.”

As if frustrated, Makena huffs out a short breath before answering. “His references checked out. If Kyle confirms his whereabouts last night, then he hasn’t done anything shady aside from asking about me. And that isn’t that shady.”

“It’s shady enough for me. And I’m not kidding about him being scary. You don’t see it?”

“I see it.” There’s a stubborn note in Makena’s voice now, and I imagine she’s crossing her arms and staring her friend down in the same way she tried staring me down. “But maybe ‘scary’ is what I need around here.”

“Sure you do. But only if it’s the right kind of scary. Kyle says this guy has been in and out of jail.”

“And one of his references just told me that Ethan was at a livestock auction with his boss when he overheard some assholes hassling a migrant family, and he told them to cut it out. It turned into a huge fight where Ethan was the only one left standing, and when the cops got there everyone got hauled in. And every other story about his arrests was almost exactly the same.”

“So he stands up for the little guy. Good for him. But is that what you need around here?”

“I don’t know. I just think about how many people stay quiet in situations like that—and how they pretend not to see anything, as long as they’re not the ones getting hurt. Yet Ethan doesn’t. And I admire that. So I don’t want to punish him for it.”

“I admire that, too.” Sincerity rings through Carrie’s response. “But look at him. He’s freaking huge. He can afford to speak up and pick fights because he won’t get hurt, and he’s got nothing to lose. It’s not so easy for you. And you didn’t pick this fight with MDC. Instead they brought it to you. But you’re handling it—”

“Just barely handling it,” Makena breaks in wryly.

“And that’s my point. You are handling it. Now. But can you take more trouble coming your way if your ranch hand decides to start picking fights?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.” A bleak note flattens her voice. “But if MDC kills all my livestock, it won’t matter who I hire. I won’t need any employees if I don’t have a ranch.”

Carrie makes a sound like a frustrated growl. “God. If there was just something to pin on them, some real evidence, you can bet that I would be screaming it to everyone in the county. Kyle, too. Because everything I say now…there’s just nothing tangible. So a bunch of them don’t want to listen.”

“You really think it’d matter if it was tangible?” Makena scoffs. “Some of them are convinced the new development and all the jobs will save them. So they’ll excuse anything MDC does and say I brought all this trouble on myself.”

Carrie makes another of those frustrated sounds. “I wish you weren’t right.”

“Me, too.” A heavy sigh follows. “But, you know—MDC has more than enough land to do everything they promised for this town. All the rest of this is just MDC being greedy. So fuck anyone who’ll look the other way as long as they get theirs.”

“I won’t argue with you there. But, Makena—just because you’re right doesn’t mean you’ll win. And you know we’ll do everything we can to help. So that’s the only reason why I’m harping on you about this Ethan guy. There’s plenty of other people in town you could hire and you know are trustworthy.”

“And most of those people have families who can be threatened, like Julio did. At least Ethan doesn’t have that.”

“Are you saying you don’t worry that they’ll threaten Ethan directly?” A short silence follows, as if Carrie’s waiting for Makena to deny it. When she doesn’t, Carrie continues. “Although, the way it sounds, he might not even wait for a threat. He’ll go looking for a fight with MDC. If he does, you might be the one who has to deal with the fallout. So is hiring him really going to help you?”

“I don’t know,” Makena says in a weary voice. “But I truly hope so.”

Hoping apparently isn’t enough for Carrie. She starts in again on the lie I told her, adding to Makena’s uncertainty and her burden.

Beside me, Thelma whines softly. The sound makes me realize how close to the edge I am. An old radial tire I was intending to toss aside has a ragged tear through the rubber because I was gripping it so hard while fighting against the urge to roar into the house and shut Carrie down. Not to defend myself. But because she’s trying to help Makena, yet every word she says lays more worry on her.

And I’m not usually slow on the uptake. I don’t know where my head’s been since meeting Makena—probably somewhere in my dick—but while looking down at the shredded metal fibers sticking out of the tire, I realize I’ve been doing the same damn thing.

While telling myself that I’m helping Makena, I’ve been adding to her worries. Because if I hadn’t told that goddamn lie, there wouldn’t have been anything for Carrie to pile on.

It’s not just the lie, though. Makena called me a grandstanding prick for offering to drag all those carcasses into her trailer. I just couldn’t see the point of making her ask other people for help when I could do it myself.

But, hell. Maybe it was grandstanding. Revealing I could smell so well wasn’t; that truly was to put her mind at ease. But I’ve got no excuse for claiming I could toss around fifteen hundred pounds as easily as some men toss a bale of hay. Except maybe I wanted her to know how strong I am. Maybe I wanted her to be impressed.

And she was right to blister my ass for it. She couldn’t know I wasn’t just flapping my lips. Instead she was worried I’d get hurt—or worried she was about to hire a man with more bluster than sense.

Either way, I piled more worry on her, though she already has more than enough trouble.

Worse, my posturing could bring more harm than just worry. Ever since my family was killed, I haven’t hidden everything I can do. Transforming, sure. I’ve kept that secret. And I’ve never let anyone see exactly how strong or fast I am. But there’ve been plenty of times when I was stronger and faster than any man should be. Not enough to make people question whether I’m human—I figure that possibility doesn’t even enter their minds—but enough that it’s drawn notice.

In all these years, I haven’t pondered why I’ve done it. But examining my reasons now, the answer’s obvious: I hoped whoever murdered my family and all the other kin would come for me. Because that would be a hell of a lot easier than tracking them down has proved to be.

But if they come for me here, at Makena’s ranch? Just the thought makes my blood run to ice.

So when it comes time to drag those carcasses into the livestock trailer, I swallow my grandstanding pride and pretend I’m no stronger than any of the locals who show up to help.

Luckily, there’s no shortage of hands to go around. Carrie did a good job getting the word out. By ten, Makena’s yard looks like a parking lot. There’s plenty of gawkers among them, folks who talk about how terrible it all is but who really just seem interested in seeing the slaughter for themselves. But there’s genuine concern and anger, too.

This time I keep my ears open on purpose, hoping that some stupid fucker will brag to a friend about being responsible, or suggest that he knows something. But all I hear is plenty of speculation, a little gloating, and more whispering. Amidst all of it, a few names are mentioned that I might look into later—maybe by showing up at their house and discovering whether they have a scent.

Hell, that person could be here now and I wouldn’t know it. The sun’s high and hot, there’s not a bit of breeze moving, and the scent of blood and meat hangs in the shed like a crimson fog. Usually I don’t mind that so much—I like the scent of both—but the odor’s so damn thick I can’t smell Makena. I can hear her well enough. Just about everyone who’s visited has taken up some of her attention, offering sympathy and help, so it’s been easy to keep track of her. But knowing where she’s at isn’t the only reason I like smelling her fragrance. The air she perfumes is simply easier to breathe. So losing her scent tightens up my chest and leaves me feeling like I lost something necessary—something more than just an odor.

I ought to have realized that she wouldn’t let me alone for long, though. Despite the gallon jug of water she makes sure I have available, soon she’s bringing me a tall glass of lemonade and claiming the electrolytes and sugar will be good for me after sweating in all this heat. About an hour later, she sets up a box fan in the shed to get the stagnant air moving around—which makes it even harder to pin her scent down, but I’m not about to complain. Even if I did, I doubt she’d listen.

Makena Laine is the sweetest hardass I’ve ever known—and she believes I’m sick. So of course she checks in on me.

But the truth is that I’m feeling just fine. When she shook my hand this morning, it was like a part of me was missing—the part with fangs and fur and claws. Like it had been ripped away. And right after, I felt whole again, but so damn weak. As if I tried to transform, I wouldn’t be a massive wolfkin warrior but a little pup recovering from a wound.

I still don’t have a goddamn clue what happened. If it was because I touched her, or something else.

I’m thinking it must be something else. What that is, I have no idea. She didn’t have anything on her hands but those silver rings.

I’ve touched silver plenty of times before, though. A wound created by a silver blade or bullet can slow healing, so for that reason it’s dangerous to wolfkin—just like all those legends about werewolves claim. Yet silver alone never hurt.

But I don’t have any idea how magic works, and there’s no point in pretending I know what the hell is going on. More than likely, whatever conclusions I draw would be wrong.

Here’s what I do know: my instinct isn’t screaming at me to get away from her, and my brain isn’t telling me to pick up and run. Instead I’m thinking that even if her touch tears me apart again, it’ll be worth the pain.

Something drew me to Makena Laine. Magic, instinct, whatever. But I was going off nothing more than her sweet scent. Now every moment that I’m with her moves me far beyond where I started, and it’s all because of who she is. Not magic.

But Makena…she started drawing away from me after I kissed her last night, and she hasn’t stopped since.

I know she’s right to erect a fence between us. I’ll work for her until this trouble is over, and then I’ll leave. There’s just no other choice. But I’d give anything to see the fence she erected come down before I go. Because I’m fucked either way. Whether I touch her again or don’t, walking away is going to hurt. And having her under me would be a bit of heaven before the inevitable hell of going.

But simply seeing her is a bit of heaven, too. Even if it’s only because she thinks that I’m going to keel over any minute, thanks to my medical condition. It doesn’t matter why she checks in on me. With Makena, I’ll take what I can get.

What I can give Makena will matter more, though. Which means that, just after noon, I hang up my butchering tools and scrub the blood from my hands. Both Makena and Carrie called me scary. So if word spreads among the townspeople that a big scary fucker will help look after Makena’s property from now on, maybe that’ll make whoever killed her cattle think twice before trying anything again.

And if they ignore that warning and come anyway, they’ll discover exactly how scary I can be.

Half the town seems to be parked in her yard now—but they haven’t come empty-handed. Out on the lawn, long tables are set up and loaded with all kinds of goodies, from sandwich fixings to freshly-baked cookies to strawberry pie. With the dogs tagging along at my heels, I grab a paper plate and pile it high. I already met a few of the folks when they came to help clear out the pasture, but I make a point to introduce myself as the new ranch hand to plenty of others—and all the while, I match up scents to the people they belong to.

Everyone here smells like a person should—though by the time I’ve mingled and glowered my way through the picnicking townsfolk, a whole lot of them are smelling a mite uneasy. Since the one person I want to smell is down at the other end of the pasture again, I head back to the butchering shed and share my lunch with Thelma and Alf.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m back to work. The spoiled meat isn’t worth much but the hides still have some value if Makena sells them, so I take more care stripping the skins than I do butchering the carcass.

I’m pulling at one of those hides when Makena pokes her head in. “They’ve got lunch set up out here.”

I ought to have known she was here, but between the fan blowing all the scents around and all the people coming and going, I’d lost track of her. Her sudden appearance rips through me like an electric jolt, stiffening just about everything in a man that can be stiffened, and popping out everything in a werewolf that pops out. My teeth and claws extend and sharpen, and I have to actually struggle for a second to pull them back—too late to save the hide I’m ripping off a steer.

Fortunately she doesn’t seem to notice the holes I just gouged into the skin. The heavy leather apron I’m wearing conceals everything else that’s poking out.

She nods when I tell her that we already partook of the picnic spread, but doesn’t disappear again as I expect. Instead she grins and glances at the dogs.

“Does that ‘we’ include your fan club?”

“It does. I figured they’ve been working so hard staring at me this morning that they earned a peanut butter sandwich.”

Makena’s laugh stiffens everything up all over again. Then she saunters deeper into the shed and drags out an old wooden crate, turning it upside down and taking a seat…right in front of the fan.

Christ Almighty. Suddenly it’s like I’m swimming in that scent. I thought I’d adjusted to breathing her air but this is like going from swimming across a placid lake to swimming in a stormy ocean.

Luckily Makena’s attention isn’t on me but on the half-dozen carcasses that I’ve got hanging from the ceiling. “I hope the dogs in town are hungry.”

I grunt a response, my head spinning with the glory of that scent.

Her eyes narrow on me. “You all right?”

Worried about my condition again. Shit, maybe she’s right to be worried. I’ve never had so much trouble keeping my claws and fangs under control. I don’t know why they’re popping out like this. Transforming isn’t hard, but unless I’m hurting, it’s also something I have to think about. Like doing a pushup. Right now it’s acting like a smile, instead. Sometimes you smile deliberately, and sometimes you can’t help it.

Smiling around Makena makes sense but transforming into a werewolf doesn’t. Yet my body keeps wanting to do it. As if her presence is provoking all my protective instincts. Or maybe my instincts are just trying to introduce themselves to her.

Whatever it is, I need to get a handle on this. She’ll always be safe with me. But it’d kill me if she ever felt the need to be safe from me.

“Ethan?”

“I’m all right,” I say and add a cowardly, “You should go and get your lunch.” Because I love her scent but I’m drowning here in the deep end.

But I better keep swimming, because she settles in a little more, stretching out her long legs. “I’m still working on breakfast.” She pats her lean belly. “And crowds aren’t my thing, so I’ll probably hide in here with you a while.”

The thought of her hiding away with me sounds damn fine. It’d sound better if she wasn’t lying. I suspect the reason she’s really staying is to make sure that I’m not about to keel over.

“Anyway,” she says a little more softly, “I like being in here. It might sound a little weird, but…this shed hasn’t smelled like this for a long time. I didn’t realize how much it would remind me of my mom.”

Or maybe her reason for staying isn’t about me at all. And I’m not a bit sorry, if it means learning more about the woman Makena is—and the girl she was. “Your mom did the butchering?”

“Yeah.” A heavy note thickens her voice. Closing her eyes, she draws in a long breath—then falls silent.

Hurt’s coming off her, but it’s the bittersweet kind of hurt that accompanies good memories and not the kind of hurt that anyone needs protecting from. So I quiet down and continue working.

About ten minutes pass before I realize she’s looking my direction, her eyes no longer closed but slitted open and unfocused. Like maybe she’s half-asleep or idly watching while her mind’s busy with other subjects.

Subjects such as what I told her this morning. “What’s it like, smelling things as well as you do?” she suddenly asks.

I shrug and tell her the truth. “I’ve always been able to, so it’s normal to me. It’s everyone else that seems to walk around with a muffler over their nose.”

She smiles at that. “A muffler’s not such a bad thing. Especially in the barn.” Her eyes widen a bit. “Working a ranch must be bad. Everything smells that much stronger.”

I shake my head and swing a new carcass into place over the offal tub. “It’s not bad or good. Some things smell more interesting than others, but it’s just…another way of seeing, maybe. Like putting on those glasses at the fair.”

“Like…what?”

I suppose that was a jump she couldn’t follow. “I don’t see color. So—”

Her burst of laughter stops me. But she holds up her hand and says through a giggle, “Sorry. Usually when people say that… Never mind. You mean you’re colorblind? Like, really colorblind?”

“I am. I see colors, but they’re apparently not what most people see. Like this”—I tap a hanging carcass—“I know is red. But ‘red’ to me isn’t like the red you see. And if a green cow was hanging here, I might not see much difference. Most of my life, I didn’t even realize there was a real difference. I knew I was colorblind but didn’t know what I was missing.”

She looks fascinated. “Then you found out?”

“At a state fair last year. After helping one of my bosses bring in some livestock, I was walking around and went into a booth where they had a bunch of posters and paintings hanging up, and a pair of special glasses. And it was…” My throat tightens up just remembering it. “I had no fucking idea the world looked like that.”

“Beautiful,” she says softly.

“Well, it was already beautiful. But it added a whole other layer to seeing that I didn’t realize was there.”

Understanding dawns on her face. “And scent does that for you, instead. It adds another layer to the way you perceive the world.”

I nod. “Except I don’t think of it as another layer. Because it’s as normal to me as seeing color is to you.”

“Would you trade?” She cocks her head, eyeing me curiously. “Would you give up smelling things if you could see the proper colors?”

“No.” Not if it meant I couldn’t breathe her in like I’m doing now. Or if the air while she was near was the same as when she was gone. “Though I wouldn’t mind having a pair of those glasses to look through.”

Especially if I was looking at her. Although I can’t imagine her being any more beautiful than she is right now, as amusement lights her dark eyes and curves her full mouth.

“I read a book once about a guy with a nose like yours, but he used it to make the most incredible perfumes. Then he became a serial killer, because he couldn’t resist the way virgins smelled. So he succumbed to his darker impulses and made perfume out of them.”

I’ve read that book, too, but it wasn’t because of his ability to smell. Instead it was because he didn’t have a scent himself—just like the fuckers I’ve been hunting.

Search long enough, you start looking for answers anywhere. Often in fictional stories there’s a kernel of truth—just like there’s a bit of truth in werewolf lore. But if there were answers in that book, I didn’t recognize them. Just as if fact were red and fiction was green, they don’t look any different if you don’t know there should be a difference.

I wryly glance at the bloody bone saw in my hand and tell her, “I’ll try to control my darker impulses.”

She grins. “Even if you don’t, I figure I’m safe. Only virgins smell that good.”

No, only she does. And if virgins smell different from non-virgins, I’ve sure as hell never noticed it.

But I figure that neither one of those responses will keep her feeling safe—and footsteps nearing the shed tell me this private time with her is about to end, anyway.

“Hey, Makena.” It’s a woman that I met while I was in the yard getting lunch—Christy or Crystal, I think her name was. The one who must have baked the chocolate chip cookies because she still smells like them. She’s around Makena’s age, wearing cutoffs and a halter top, with light hair pulled up in a ponytail. “Is it all right if I take a couple of these kids down to the swimming hole?”

“The swimming hole?” Makena blinks like that’s the last thing she expected. “Yeah. Of course.” She gets up from her crate. “I think there’s some inner tubes in the barn. They’re all deflated but there’s an air compressor in the… Oh crap. Actually, I can’t get into the workshop until Kyle gives me the all-clear that the forensic guys have looked in there.”

“I’ve got a tire pump in the car. And thank you so much. These kids are in for a treat.” Christy-or-Crystal smiles brightly, then glances over at me. “That swimming hole made her the most popular girl in our class every summer. At least until the summer before senior year, when everyone was worried that the bears would come back—” She abruptly breaks off and a pained expression crosses her face. “Oh, Makena. I’m so sorry. Me and my big stupid mouth.”

Because her parents were killed by bears on the property. But Makena shrugs it off. “No worries. I’m not the first girl who got popular by letting a bunch of people into her hole.”

Dissolving into laughter, the other woman shakes her head. “Not the first girl to get popular that way, no. But maybe the first to have a bunch of people jumping out of a tree to get into that hole.”

“Oh, I bet I’m far from the first to do that, either. Just last week, Carrie sent me a link to a video like that, except they were jumping off a trapeze,” Makena says dryly, then glances at me. “You want a Coke or anything other than that water?”

“I’m good.” Mostly just wondering what position the trapeze people ended up in.

“All right. But it’s going to get hot in here before too long, so if the fan’s not keeping up, just let the rest of this wait until tomorrow. These cows aren’t in any hurry.”

“Oh, Makena. Honey. It’s already hot in here,” Crystal-or-Christy observes, her sparkling gaze raking me up and down. “So maybe instead of giving him a fan, you ought to introduce him to your swimming hole.”

“Annnnnnd now that’s enough out of that mouth.” A grinning Makena claps her palm over her friend’s lips and begins steering her backward out of the shed. “Say goodbye to Makena’s nice, new employee who hopefully isn’t going to file a harassment suit.”

A muffled ‘goodbye, nice employee’ emerges as Makena drags her outside. About five steps away from the shed, Makena starts groaning in embarrassment and her friend says that she just peed a little from laughing. Followed by, “The way he looks at you, I don’t think you have to worry about any lawsuit. The only worry you ought to have is whether you’ll be torn in half.”

She hasn’t even seen me in my warrior’s skin. Though that’s no real worry at all. No matter his size, any man with a working brain knows you don’t go diving into a swimming hole without first making sure it’s nice and wet.

Makena wasn’t kidding about the heat, though. The shed sat in the shade of the barn for most of the morning, but as soon as the sun shines down on it bright and full, the temperature inside soars. Which isn’t a problem for me—I’ll sweat, but I could run into a fire and come out all right. So the heat’s nothing. But a dip in a cold swimming hole starts to sound better and better.

Especially since I’m not the only one in the shed. Alf and Thelma have been tagging along beside me all day. Even sending them out to play doesn’t help. They’ll reluctantly go but they don’t stay gone. I give them a good spray with the hose every time I wash out a carcass, but by mid-afternoon, I figure that Makena’s right. These cows aren’t going anywhere. And there’s plenty else to do.

I pull off the bloody leather apron, give my hands a good wash, then turn the hose over my head. I look up when Thelma yips in excitement. Old Alf lets out a baying welcome and they both take off out of the shed—the first time they’ve left my side without me first sending them away.

Bemused, I head out to the yard. A good number of people are still around, and townsfolk have been coming and going all day. Some of the rigs have been pulling trailers so they can haul away a load of meat.

The man just pulling in now is hauling a trailer, too, but he’s the first one who’s had living animals in it. Two horses.

So this must be Jonas, Makena’s uncle—and who might be the one who decides whether I’m actually hired or not.

All right, then. I drag my hand through my soaking hair, trying to appear a little more presentable for when Makena introduces us. But I’ve got a few minutes before that’ll happen, it looks like. Jonas takes a second to greet the dogs—and they sure as hell love him—but it’s Makena that he’s focused on.

Making sure she’s all right. I know she called him earlier and assured him she was, but he must have driven like hell to get here and see for himself.

Which makes me predisposed to liking the man, though he sure isn’t what I expected. At the bar last night, Sam called him foreign, and I must have made assumptions about what Sam meant by that. So it’s a bit of a surprise that Jonas Laine is one of the blondest men I’ve ever seen, and to hear the Scandinavian accent that seems to deepen while he’s greeting Makena.

When she says my name and gestures in my direction, I take that as my cue to come over for an introduction.

Jonas sizes me up the same way I do him. He’s about an inch taller than Makena, lean and wiry, and a bit older than I expected—probably on the other side of sixty, maybe even pushing seventy. He’s dressed the same as any rancher I’ve ever seen, in jeans and plain short-sleeved shirt, but the curious thing is that he doesn’t eye me the same way. There’s something in his quiet and steady focus that recalls men I served with in the military. Not the other soldiers, but the officers, giving him a confident air of quiet authority. The kind of man who’ll never bluster but grimly do what needs to be done.

A horse’s high-pitched whinny pulls his gaze sharply away from me.

From the trailer comes the quick stomp of hooves and thunk of metal as the fillies inside begin panicking.

“Shit,” Makena swears as she takes off with her uncle toward the trailer. “They probably got wind of the butchering shed!”

The probably got wind of me. Goddammit. This isn’t the kind of job interview I’d like to have, because instead of heading in to help them like any good ranch hand should, I take my ass downwind of the horses and keep my distance.

Immediately they begin quieting, though their fear lies thick in the air. And me…for some reason, my instincts are screaming, and I’m real fucking uneasy. But my head isn’t nailing down the reason why. Instead it’s like something I can’t quite see out of the corner of my eye.

Until Makena and her uncle come over, and I realize what it is. Because as I shake his hand, I’m standing downwind of him and I can smell the faint laundry soap clinging to his clothes, I can smell leather and horses and hay, I can smell the coffee he drank and the hamburger he ate. I can smell everything he’s worn and touched. But the man himself?

He doesn’t have a scent at all.

10

ETHAN

I DON’T KNOW how the fuck I missed it. The truth has been staring me in the face from the second I got into Makena’s truck last night, when I smelled the lingering odors of a man and two dogs. I figured then that the man’s scent belonged to either her uncle or the ranch hand who quit. When I smelled the same scent in the workshop, I matched it up to her uncle. And I never fucking questioned why I hadn’t picked up a second male scent around the ranch. Probably because I was so distracted by Makena’s.

But that scent had been Julio’s all along—and only Julio’s.

Maybe I’d have figured it out eventually, when I got into the bunkhouse—which is where Julio was staying and which is still saturated with his scent. But maybe I’d have blindly stumbled along for days if Jonas hadn’t come home today. All because I couldn’t fucking count to two.

Trying to figure out what to do now is ripping me up. Jonas not having a scent isn’t proof of anything—it doesn’t mean he murdered my family or any other kin. But here I am in a place that I thought might be related to their murders. After hearing about how Makena’s parents were killed, I’d gotten off the idea that there was any connection.

Yet there is something here that’s affecting me. Makena, for one—and whatever the hell it was that ripped me apart this morning. Now, I can accept that some things simply don’t have any explanation beyond ‘magic.’ I can accept that there truly are coincidences that happen. So Jonas not having a scent might have nothing to do with anything.

But that seems like a hell of a coincidence.

So Jonas might not be the fucker I’m looking for, but I’d bet anything he has answers. I’m going to get those answers from him, one way or another. I’ve got no reservations about that. But that’s what’s ripping at me so bad. I’m fucking terrified that while I’m getting those answers, I’ll hurt Makena. Because all this time while hunting down my family’s killers, I never expected that someone might be stuck in the middle. I never expected that someone would be a woman I can’t bear to hurt.

And if he’s not the fucker I’m looking for, nothing will change. I’ll help Makena out here, then move on, searching for the people responsible for my family’s murders. After I get justice for them, I’ll come back and see about starting up something permanent with Makena.

But if he is the man I’m looking for, there’s no hope of that. If I killed him, Makena wouldn’t want me. And if don’t kill him, I couldn’t live here knowing what he’d done. So if he is that man…there’d be no hope either way for Makena and me.

In the bunkhouse bathroom, I stand under the shower until the water runs cold before getting dressed in a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt. I’m supposed to head over to the main farmhouse for dinner. But I could just pick up and leave. Just head home. Because I need justice for my family more than I need anything. But if the cost of justice is going after Jonas and laying pain on Makena…I can’t do it.

If Jonas is who I think he might be, though, then he’ll come after me. And if he shows up at my parents’ homestead in Montana, that’ll be something different. I’d just be defending myself.

Even as I consider it, though, I know I’m not going anywhere. It wasn’t Jonas that killed Makena’s cattle last night. And it’s not Jonas who’s trying to take her land.

So I’ll be patient. He might be the one I’m looking for or he might not be. But I can wait and watch him until this other shit that’s coming down on Makena is settled.

And if he recognizes what I am before that…well, I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t want Makena in the middle, either. He cares for her. I couldn’t smell any emotions coming off him but I didn’t need to. Makena’s like a daughter to him.

With the decision made, I head outside. The bunkhouse is about a five minute walk from the main house, with enough trees around for shade and privacy—and one of the better accommodations I’ve had in the past ten years of drifting.

From the barn comes the sound of Makena putting the animals to bed. I doubt the horses are feeling up to me coming in to help her yet. Instead I slow my stride so that I’m passing by the building as she finishes up and comes out, plucking hay out of her corkscrew hair.

Her face lights up when she sees me. “Hey, cowboy! You settle in okay?”

“All unpacked,” I confirm.

“Do you need anything for the house? Cleaning supplies, laundry soap, that kind of thing?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. Let me know if you do. How did the deliveries go? Thanks for doing that, by the way.”

“It was nothing.” Jonas hadn’t even finished getting his horses into the barn before Carrie showed up in the yard with a list of people who could sorely use a free month’s worth of pet food, but who couldn’t make it out to Makena’s ranch to pick it up.

“It was no trouble,” I tell her, because it wasn’t. And maybe for the best, since I was still reeling from the discovery of Jonas’s lack of scent. Hell, I’m still reeling from it. But at least now I’ve had time to think a bit more about my next steps. “Though you ought to tell Carrie that someone might need to check up on one of the senior citizens who got a delivery. Because I’m pretty damn sure he didn’t have any pets, and he said something to the effect that if you cook meat long enough, it doesn’t matter how long it’s been laying around.”

Makena laughs. “Oh, god. Was that Frank Stout?”

“That sounds right.”

“Then that’s no surprise at all. Kyle says that every time someone calls in reporting some roadkill on the county roads, they get out there to find Frank scraping it up for his freezer.”

“I suppose that explains the skunk smell coming from his kitchen, then.”

Laughing again, Makena shakes her head. “We probably should have made him sign a liability release before we handed over that meat. Speaking of—I hope you don’t mind doing some paperwork before dinner.”

“I don’t mind. But I guess that means I got the all-clear?”

“You did.” She climbs up the back steps ahead of me, and my gaze is fixed on her sweet ass as she says, “Kyle called about an hour ago. He got a chance to talk to Sam and Larry and to look at that security footage. Plus we Googled you.”

A hint of apology enters her tone at the last but there’s no apology needed. “And you talked it over with your uncle? I don’t want to cause any trouble between you.”

“You won’t. He knows how it all went down and that I talked to Bill Weathering, so that’s good enough for both of us.” She pauses in a mud room to yank off her boots and heads into the kitchen barefoot. Following her lead, I toe off my own boots, glad I’d thought to pull on my last pair of clean socks.

When I enter the kitchen, Thelma and Alf immediately scrabble their way over to me. Jonas is standing at the sink, elbow deep in soapy water. “Dinner will be ready in ten,” he announces.

Makena makes a face. “Please tell me it isn’t beef. Not today.”

“It’s not beef.” He eyes the dogs as they lick my hands and dance around my feet. “Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself if you’re thirsty.”

“Or better yet, help yourself to some milk,” Makena adds. “Because the two of us cannot keep up with the dairy cow. And I hope you like homemade cheese and yogurt, too, because we’ve got tons of it to use up.”

“I can help you with that.”

“Have a seat, then.” She pulls a glass gallon jug out of the fridge and sets it on the table, along with a tall glass. “I’ll go get those forms.”

Since it doesn’t mean turning my back on Jonas, I sit where she tells me to. The kitchen’s a good size, with a large window overlooking the yard that likely lets in plenty of light during the day. Although it’s dark outside now, it still seems bright and cozy, with an unlit brick fireplace behind me. Across the room, a long workbench against the wall is topped with baskets of produce that are giving off ripe, mouthwatering scents. The dining table where I’m seated is on the tall side, made of heavy unfinished wood, giving it all a lived-in rustic feel. I’m guessing a good amount of time is spent in this room.

The drain slurps when Jonas pulls the plug. He faces me, drying his hands on a towel. “I hear you nearly got yourself into trouble by helping Makena and putting yourself in the sheriff’s sights.”

“I got out of those sights, so it all turned out all right.”

“So it did. But I appreciate you being here. I hear you lost your kin, and that’s what brought you to Fortune City?”

Everything within me goes quiet, still. Kin. It’s a common word, especially in rural areas. Still, his use of it has me searching his face, looking for some indication that kin is loaded with more meaning than it usually has.

This sure would be a lot easier if he had a scent to go along with that face, because I can’t read shit in his expression. “That’s right. My mother, father, and brother.”

“That’s rough. I don’t know what I’d do without Makena. Unless she was hurt. Then I’d dedicate my life to hunting down whoever did it.”

There’s a warning if I ever heard one. But it’s a sentiment I understand all too well, because it’s exactly what I’m doing to the people who hurt my family. And it tells me something more about Jonas Laine. He appears placid and easygoing. But there’s a strong, violent current running beneath those still waters.

I’ve got plenty to conceal, too. But not this. “I’ve got no intention of hurting her.”

He nods, then his gaze shifts toward the quick pad of her bare feet down the hall. A faint smile twitches on his lips. “She’s so strong-willed, it’ll probably be the other way around, anyway.”

With me being hurt. But whether he’s saying that because he knows damn well that she’s the kind of woman who can steal a man’s heart or whether he suspects how hard I’ve been drawn to her, I don’t know. Or maybe, like usual, I haven’t been able to conceal my feelings. If so, he knows damn well how fucked I am.

“Here you go.” She comes in on a wave of her sweet scent, slapping down a collection of papers and a pen in front of me. “Tax forms, workers’ comp, and the rental agreement here is mostly just for insurance reasons—”

“He’s done this plenty of times, Makena,” Jonas interrupts her, swinging around to open up a cupboard. “Why don’t you go wash up while I set the table.”

She frowns at him. “You’re cooking, so it’s my night to set it.”

“And you’ve had a hell of a day, so I’ll do it. Go on. I’ll let you do cleaning up afterward.”

“Oh yay,” she says dryly and heads off.

I have filled out these forms plenty of times. Still, having to put even a tiny bit of focus on what I’m supposed to be writing means my attention on Jonas isn’t one hundred percent, and him walking around the kitchen collecting plates and utensils puts me on a razor’s edge. The dogs seem to sense it, laying curled up together nose-to-rump and softly whimpering now and then, their eyes roaming back and forth between the two of us as he lays out the dinnerware.

I figured they were Makena’s dogs, and they sure do love her. But clearly it’s Jonas they’re devoted to, instead. From what I heard today, he’s got a way with animals.

But his way with them isn’t what I think about now. Instead it’s how he comes by those animals.

Considering that I’m tense as hell, I don’t know how conversational my voice is, but at least it doesn’t come out as a growl. “I heard some of the townsfolk say that you’re a horse whisperer of some sort.”

Jonas snorts derisively. “That’s just bullshit they say. But I do have a reputation for finishing up horses that don’t take to training easily.”

“That’s what those two new fillies are for? You finish ’em up, send ’em back to the owners?”

“Those, I will.” He opens the oven, peeks in through a cloud of steam, closes it again. “Other times I buy difficult horses for cheap and sell them after. It gives us a bit of a cushion.”

Another source of income. Just about every small spread has to vary it up a bit. Selling beef is rarely enough to keep a place in the black, so it means getting an outside job or finding another way to bring in money.

“How long you been doing it? Must be a while, if you’ve built up a reputation.”

“Almost thirty years now.”

“So you get called up, then head out and pick up the horses. Does that happen often?”

“Often enough.” With two big oven mitts on his hands, he fixes a hard look on me. “You wondering if I’ll leave Makena here alone again before this business with MDC is done?”

I wasn’t. I was wondering if maybe his business took him up to the Kootenai forest around eleven years ago. Because I don’t much give a shit if he’s gone. I can look after Makena just fine—and she sure as hell won’t be alone if he leaves.

But it’s as good a question as any. “Are you?”

“No. I expect to work on these fillies for two or three months, at least.” Opening the oven again, he pulls out a big dish and adds, “Maybe longer, if they keep acting up like they did today.”

After I spooked them. But once again, I can’t tell if there’s something more pointed to what he’s saying, and whether he knows what the real cause of their panic was. Then I hear Makena’s feet on the stairs and my attention diverts in that direction.

“Oh my god, that smells good,” she says, and I’m thinking the same, but it isn’t about a chicken pie. She’s changed out of her jeans and into a pair of denim shorts that show off the long, sleek lengths of her legs, and traded in the T-shirt she wore all day for a tank top that clings to every inch of her tits and waist.

“It still needs to cool a bit,” Jonas tells her. “So don’t go sticking your fingers in like last time and burning them.”

She blows a raspberry at him and heads across the kitchen, picking up a flat of strawberries from the long workbench near the back wall. “Hand me that big bowl and a knife? I was supposed to make these into jam today, but… Well. I guess I’ll do that tomorrow.”

Jonas passes the bowl over while she settles into the seat beside me, curling one of those long legs up beneath her. She picks up one of the forms I’ve finished and put aside, scanning the entries.

Her brows arch high. “Your emergency contact is 9-1-1?”

“I figure if there’s any emergency that’s bad enough to contact anyone, the first call you make ought to be them.”

Which isn’t quite true. If anything happens to me, there’s only two outcomes: I’ll be fine, or I’m dead. Neither paramedics nor police are much use either way.

She laughs. “Trust me—if it’s that bad, I’ll definitely call 9-1-1.” Then her voice softens, and a burst of strawberry joins her scent when she slices off a stem and drops the berry into the bowl. “You don’t have anyone else?”

“No.” It’s almost a growl. Good Christ, I can barely fucking think. Not with those scents mixing and her sitting so close, with all that smooth skin on display and her voice so warm and caring.

Then she pops one of those strawberries into her mouth, and the next question she asks is with that juice on her breath—and sweet torture to my senses. Because there’s not just strawberry and Makena now, but something more mixing in. The faint, spicy scent of feminine arousal. As if her body’s reacting to me sitting so near, too.

“What about the sheriff up in Kalispell?”

I can’t tear my eyes away from those lips. So goddamn gorgeous and darkened with juice. And I figure this is the reason I’m colorblind. It’s the only way for me to survive. Because if I could see how that red truly looks on her skin, I suspect I’d be a dead man. “Who?”

“The one who sends you clues about who killed your family.”

I force my brain to work, which isn’t easy since all the blood in my body is rushing into my dick. “He doesn’t send clues. Just…points me toward similar murders.”

She frowns and beheads another berry. “Did he send you our way?”

“No. That was me taking a stab in the dark.”

“Your family wasn’t mauled by bears, though.”

“No,” I rasp my reply, struggling through a fog of hot need. On the seat across from me, Jonas sets down a basket of parsnips.

“Slide that over here?” He points to a knife sitting near my plate.

Makena snorts as I reach for it. “That fancy thing won’t peel—”

Agony rips up the length of my arm the second I touch it, instantly searing every nerve with white-hot pain. Wood shrieks over linoleum as Jonas lunges from his chair. Then the whole goddamn world spins, my only anchor Makena’s scent and her cry of surprise. I turn toward her but I’m knocked the other way. Makena shouts her uncle’s name. Pain explodes through my head as he slams my face into the table, then all at once yanks me back by my hair. A burning slice crosses the side of my neck—the silver. I try to push his wrist away and get nowhere, I’m so fucking weak. Makena’s pulling at his opposite arm, her voice frantic as she pleads with him to stop, her terror mixing with the perfume of strawberries.

Jonas angles the silver blade against my throat and I go utterly still. “You just stay nice and quiet. I keep this blade sharp, so any sudden moves on your part might end up slicing through your skin. And if this silver comes in contact with your blood, you’ll know what real hurt is.”

I believe him. And he could have already killed me, but I’m not dead yet. Which says he maybe doesn’t intend to kill me. I clench my jaw against the pain and wait for him to say what he does intend.

But I can’t stop my gaze from going to Makena. If these are my last moments on Earth, I want them to be filled with the sight of her. I just wish they weren’t moments when she was so damn terrified and confused, as if still trying to comprehend that her uncle attacked me, as if thinking there’s something going on here that must be a joke. But she’s pulled back, no longer yanking on his arm—as if afraid that jostling him might slice through my throat.

“Now you tell me: Are you here for Makena?” His voice is as sharp as the blade against my skin. “She didn’t have a goddamn thing to do with what happened to the berserkers who killed Halima and Mikael. So if you’re here to avenge them, you look to me. Not her.”

Makena pulls in a strangled gasp and stares at her uncle in stunned horror. “Uncle Jonas? What are you talking about?”

He seems to flinch, but his grip doesn’t ease and his gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “Are you here to kill me and get your revenge?”

Forcing out a reply adds another layer of agony. “Did you kill my family?”

“Were they the bears who killed my brother and his wife?”

“No.”

“Then I didn’t touch any of your kin.”

“So we’ve got no argument between us,” I grate out through clenched teeth.

That answer doesn’t satisfy him. “Then why are you here?” He doesn’t wait for me to reply but sharply asks Makena, “Do you have a gold chain on you anywhere? One that only you can see?”

“A gold chain?” She shakes her head, as if in disbelief. “Are you serious? No. Uncle Jonas, this is crazy. Let him go!”

He doesn’t, though the pressure of the blade eases. “Are you cursed or were you born?”

Astonishment rips through the agony. He knows this, too? Because there’s two ways become a werewolf—be born or be bit, and being bit turns a man into the kind of werewolf that horror stories are made from. So he might be wondering if I’ll lose my shit come the next full moon.

“I was born,” I tell him through the pain that turns that simple answer into a snarl.

“Then what brought you out here last night? Makena says you didn’t know who she was when you came out in this direction. You want me to believe it was just chance that you drove up our road?”

I grit my teeth, reluctant to tell him why Makena’s affecting me, but lies won’t satisfy her uncle. Not when he’s got more answers than I do. “It was her scent,” I admit on a growl. “It drew me in.”

“My what?” Now she’s staring at us like we’re both crazy.

Jonas’s eyes narrow, as if he’s weighing my answer. “But you aren’t cursed?”

“No.”

“And you’re a wolf—not a bear?” And my nod, he adds, “You going to hurt her?”

“I’d die first.” It’s pure truth.

He studies my face for a long moment before finally nodding. “All right, then.”

He pulls the knife away from my neck. The agony vanishes. Driven by instinct, I spin around and knock that knife from his hand, sending it flying. I reach for my warrior’s skin but that part of me is still weak and cowering like a pup.

But that doesn’t fucking matter. A weak wolfkin can still lift a murdering human off the floor with one hand around his neck, my claws digging into his throat. I snarl into Jonas’s face, baring elongated teeth.

Makena’s terrified scream stops me cold. She’s staring at me, her face bloodless and her scent awash with horror.

My heart clenches. “Don’t be afraid, Makena. Don’t be—”

On another scream, this one of anger, she launches herself forward and crashes into me, her hands pulling at my wrist as if trying to make me let go of her uncle. Agony rips through me again, stealing my strength. I drop him and she shoves me away, her terror filling my lungs. Pain and instinct take over in a blur of motion. I catch her up against my chest and head for a corner of the kitchen, where she’ll have two solid walls protecting her back and me protecting the rest of her.

Snarling against the pain, I plead with her again. “Don’t be afraid.”

But she’s fucking terrified, whimpering and shivering in a ball on the floor right in front of me. I’m crouching over her, shielding her with my body but my wolfskin is still struggling. I’ve got my fangs and claws but the rest of me is still too weak to completely transform. I can’t protect her fully, though her uncle’s at my back and must have had time to get that knife again.

“Don’t be afraid,” I growl against her hair but she flinches away from me, tighter into the corner. “I’ll protect you.”

Her only response is more terror, her heart racing and her breath coming in strangled wheezes.

“It’s all right, girl,” her uncle says from behind me in a soothing tone. “You’re okay, Makena. You’re probably safer now than you’ve ever been. But, Grimmson, you’ve got to ease up. She doesn’t do well in tight spaces and you’ve got her surrounded.”

His voice penetrates the fog of instinct. She’s terrified, so I tried to protect her from whatever was making her afraid. But that thing is me. So my instincts and her fear just kept ratcheting up.

With effort, I fight that instinct…and force myself to back away from her. My heart squeezes in tight. She’s curled up in a ball, quavering in that corner. Because she saw me.

Part of me.

And everything that I did to protect her must have seemed like an attack.

“Makena,” I say hoarsely and hold out my hand.

She scrambles away from me as fast as she can, putting the solid table between me and her.

Sick pain fills up my gut. Only a minute ago she’d been smelling sweet and soft, sitting next to me with berry juice staining her lips and that hot feminine scent of sexual awareness perfuming the air between us. Now every breath is sour with her fear.

“All right, then. Now that’s settled”—Jonas pulls out his chair and sits—“I’m ready for some of this chicken pie.”

11

MAKENA

CHICKEN PIE? I glance at my uncle in disbelief—then realize that I took my eyes off Ethan. Fear clenches in my stomach and my gaze darts back to make sure he hasn’t come closer.

To make sure he isn’t…whatever he was before. That thing. With claws and fangs and glowing eyes.

But he looks human. And utterly tormented as he watches me.

“Makena.” His voice is a rough, harsh growl—though not as rough or as harsh as it was a minute ago, when he was telling me not to be afraid, even though he’d roared like an animal and lifted Uncle Jonas straight up off his feet. “Do you want me to leave?”

He sounds so broken as he says it, as if instead of being a huge, powerful monster, he’s as vulnerable as I was when he was caging me in with those teeth and those claws. And his torment sounds so genuine that I have to fight my instinctive “of course not” and work up the words to tell him to go, but Jonas beats me to a response.

“You know damn well you can’t go anywhere, even if she tells you to,” he says, scooping out a large helping of chicken pie. “So instead you tell me why you haven’t already tracked down the fuckers who attacked the herd.”

Tracked down…? Because Ethan can smell things. Really well.

And my uncle is acting like that’s expected. As if he wasn’t just tossed around by our new ranch hand the same way I’d toss around a pillow.

“They didn’t have a scent,” Ethan says roughly, and for the first time looks away from me, focusing in on Jonas. “The same way you don’t.”

My uncle frowns. “You sure they don’t?”

“Yeah. The same way the fuckers who killed my kin don’t.”

Jonas nods thoughtfully. “That’s not so surprising. But it sure is odd that you were noseblind to the ones who attacked the herd, too.”

That’s what’s odd? I stare at my uncle in disbelief, dimly aware of my teeth chattering and my body shaking as adrenaline and terror still make their way out of my system. Because our ranch hand just grew giant fangs and claws after Jonas attacked him…and not having a scent is what’s odd?

“Makena.” Ethan’s voice is low, his eyes dark with concern. “You all right?”

Brows lowered, Jonas glances back at me. “Shock, probably. Pull up a chair and get some warm food into your belly, and it’ll pass.”

Yeah, no. I don’t want any chicken pie. I need something else instead.

I head for the liquor cabinet. We don’t drink much hard stuff around here—usually only when there’s company or a splash to warm up a wintertime drink—but tonight is definitely going to be an exception.

I grab a bottle of whisky and a glass and turn around, leaning back against the counter. No way am I getting closer to Ethan. It doesn’t matter that Jonas seems to be completely comfortable with him. As far as I can tell, the whole world has gone crazy, and that includes my uncle.

“So you know what’s hunting down the kin?” Ethan asks him.

“I’ve got an idea.” Jonas points to the chair across the table. “But it’s a long story, so you might as well settle in.”

Ethan looks to me, sending me another of those tortured glances before nodding. Because he’s been looking for his family’s killers for a long time, and Jonas…

“Hold up.” At my voice, Ethan freezes, but I’m not talking to him. Instead I feel as if my brain is finally catching up. “You might know who killed his family?”

Jonas nods, chewing and swallowing. “Not that I ever met them—either his family or the people who likely killed them. But I’ve got a good idea of who they might be. So maybe it’s best that you have a seat, too.”

With my second sip burning down into my belly, fire moves into my blood. “I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself.”

“What about that blade?” Ethan’s eyeing Jonas’s knife, which my uncle has owned for as long as I can remember. Then Ethan’s amber gaze moves back to me, settling on my hand. “And those rings? Is that what these people used to make the bullets that killed them?”

“Now you’re jumping ahead,” Jonas tells him. “But the dead aren’t in any rush. And when the living rush, they make mistakes. So you might as well sit.”

I’m happy right here with my bottle. Happy, except that there’s an obvious question that my uncle already seems to know the answer to.

To Ethan, I demand, “What the hell are you?”

His gaze locks on mine again. “We’re called the wolfkin.”

“That’s a new one to me,” Jonas says, and to me he adds, “He’s one of the úlfhéðnar.”

My belly lurches. “They’re not real,” I immediately insist.

Even though…maybe the evidence of that reality is right in front of me, frowning.

“The what?” Ethan asks.

“The úlfhéðnar,” Jonas repeats.

Which probably doesn’t help at all. “Roughly translated, it means wolf coats. Or wolf skins.” Which sounds similar to what he’d called it—wolfkin. Maybe that’s just a shift in the language or something else. “They were berserker warriors. My father was researching them for a novel he was writing about werewolves, and using that mythology as the background story.”

“It’s no myth,” Jonas says. “And he wasn’t writing a novel.”

“But all of his research—”

“Was research. But not for any fiction.”

Not for any fiction. Suddenly I’m dizzy with the fundamental shift that my entire brain is trying to make with this information. My father wasn’t a writer. And the bears that killed my parents…maybe weren’t bears, but berserkers.

And all the stuff that he was researching, all those discussions I had with him were real?

As real as the man sitting at my kitchen table.

“Makena.” Ethan’s voice is soft again, as if he knows exactly how my world is crashing around me.

I shake my head, rejecting the concern in his voice—and rejecting my own impulse to go to him and let him comfort me the way that look in his eyes promises. The look that says he’ll protect me and take care of me.

I force myself to start processing instead. Just one question at a time. That’s the only way to get through this.

“You said you were born?”

“I was.”

“And both your parents were wolfkin—born and not cursed?” At his nod, I ask him, “How far back does your line go?”

“Three generations on my father’s side. Two generations on my mother’s.”

So that’s probably why they don’t know anything about berserkers. They only know what they’ve learned in the few generations since the person in their line was cursed, or from other wolfkin that they meet. Because the curse is passed along with a bite, and while tearing into his victim, a werewolf probably doesn’t stop to pass along a history of lycanthropy, too. Cursed werewolves are mindless beasts during the full moon. Except…

“That’s why you asked me about the gold chain.” I laugh bitterly in my uncle’s direction and take another swig. “Yeah. No worries there.”

“Worries about what?” Ethan asks.

My face heats as I realize exactly what Jonas must have thought the relationship was between me and Ethan. “It doesn’t matter. You were born, so it doesn’t apply. What does matter is that apparently my parents were killed by berserkers, and my uncle killed them in revenge. And somehow that brought you to us.” Finally I grab a chair next to Jonas and plop down, whisky and glass close at hand, because I’ve got a feeling I’ll need them. “So…?”

Jonas sighs and puts down his fork. “I was fifteen years old when Mikael was born, so we weren’t ever too close. He was at university when first our father passed of heart failure, followed by our mother of cancer a few years later. So although I knew that he was studying sagas and old texts and later was hired as a consultant, he never said much about it on those rare times we did talk.”

I would never have guessed this. My uncle and my father seemed as tight as brothers could be. But although I knew my father had a doctorate, now I can’t remember him ever mentioning a job. “What kind of consulting needs someone proficient in reading runes?”

“I was under the impression that he was consulting for the ministry of culture, going anywhere new construction had to be approved to make certain anything of historical significance wasn’t destroyed. Then, about twenty-nine years ago, he shows up at my door with a pregnant wife and claiming he was in a hell of a mess.”

“You’d never met my mom before that?”

“No.”

“What kind of mess?”

“The kind that I was particularly suited toward getting them out of.” He gives me a wry glance. “I’d spent most of my career cleaning up messes for the government.”

“In Norway?”

“That’s right.” He drags the whisky bottle over—not to pour himself one, I realize, but because I’ve gotten pretty deep into it already. “He and Halima needed to disappear. New names, new passports—all of which I could get for him. But he wouldn’t tell me why. Oh, he spins a story—but it’s about the worst lie I’ve ever heard. Then he says I won’t believe the truth. And maybe if he’d been the one to tell me, I wouldn’t have. But your mother sat me down and laid it out.” Abruptly he laughs. “Much like is what’s happening now.”

At a table. With whisky.

Ethan asks, “What kind of consulting did they do?”

“It was Bjørn—that was my brother’s name before he changed it to Mikael—who did the consulting. Finding ways to kill werewolves for an organization of hunters.” He looks to me, his face sober. “It was your mother who was one of the hunters.”

I can’t even be surprised. “Okay.”

“Hunters?” Ethan growls.

Jonas nods. “A group formed by the French king after the terror of… Shit, I don’t recall.”

“The Beast of Gévaudan.” My stomach is rolling. “It’s in my father’s research.”

“The organization was only supposed to hunt the cursed ones. Locate them, put them down. Save lives and keep the curse from spreading.”

Ethan’s jaw tightens. “All right. Even the wolfkin will put down one of the cursed if they won’t agree to being locked up during the full moon or if we can’t contain them. But none of my kin were cursed, and these hunters killed them?”

“That’s part of why my brother and his wife came looking for escape. There was new leadership within the organization who decided that all berserkers pose a threat. That with a few bites they would spread that curse and wipe out humanity.”

“The wolfkin and other berserkers have been around for thousands of years,” I point out. “They haven’t yet.”

“That’s you being logical. And fear is when logic disappears. Plus there was some worry the curse would be weaponized, or made into a virus, or some other shit. So the only solution was complete eradication.” Jonas shakes his head. “I don’t know anything else about what changed in that organization. Only that your mother and father pushed back, and then stole the hunters’ newest, best weapon from them.”

“That silver,” Ethan rasps.

Jonas nods. “The hunters have been using silver since their group first formed. But along the way, they figured out that some silver hurt werewolves a whole lot worse. And that’s one of the things your father was tasked to find out. They figured it was some herb or spell that was affecting the silver, much like the flower that takes away the scent.”

“Aidan’s weed,” I murmur.

“That’s right. Your father was the one who figured that out, too. That’s partially why he was so damn valuable to them.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ethan’s face is dark with frustration.

“There’s a legend,” I tell him. “About a monk who once saw a stag being chased by hunters. And he performed a miracle that made the stag invisible to the hunters and saved its life.”

“But it wasn’t a miracle,” Jonas fills in the rest. “Because Mikael started picking apart that story and trying to figure out what really happened. That’s what he did—pick apart legends. This one, he figured out that the stag didn’t become invisible to the hunters, but to the dogs that they were using to track it. And if a local wildflower is eaten or made into a tea, it makes a person’s scent impossible to detect. So the organization started using it to mask themselves from werewolves.”

“And you, too?”

Jonas nods. “Before I went after those berserkers.”

Ethan frowns. “Sam said there were two cubs. You didn’t—”

“No. Those were real black bears that he saw earlier that week—we’ve got plenty of them around here. The berserkers were two adults.”

“And you used that knife?” Ethan eyes the weapon.

“I did.”

“You said your brother stole all the silver. But whoever killed my family had some.”

“Maybe they found more. But they probably don’t have much.”

Ethan nods. “They dig out the bullets to re-use.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” He gestures to the knife. “We melted that down from all Mikael and Halima had. Except for what went into making their wedding rings.”

I stare at the jewelry, realization pushing through me. I’d pulled Ethan away from my uncle so easily tonight. And this morning, he got sick when I shook his hand. “These…hurt you?”

“They sure don’t feel good.” Ethan says softly. “But maybe you’ll feel safer around me if you keep wearing them.”

Maybe. I’m already feeling safer, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the rings. Maybe it’s because I’m drunk as fuck.

But not so drunk that I can’t think. “Dad found the source of that silver, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Jonas confirms.

My throat tightens and my eyes start to burn. “Is that why they were killed? Because of that mine?”

“I don’t think those berserkers ever knew it was there,” Jonas says. “I just think they were afraid.”

“Of my parents?”

“Well, Halima and Mikael put out some enquiries while they were tracking down that mine. You can’t go looking without leaving a small ripple. It’d been twenty years, but…” He looks at Ethan. “Given the timing, I figure now that the berserkers heard of what happened to your kin. And they figured that Mikael and Halima were a part of it.”

My chest a thick knot, I can’t say anything.

Ethan sits back, frowning. “One of the bearkin might have taken that sledgehammer to the herd. Maybe one who found how to mask his scent.”

“Looking for revenge on me after eleven years?”

A humorless laugh escapes Ethan. “Would it matter to you how much time had passed? Because it doesn’t to me. When this is done with, I’ll take what you’ve just given me and go hunt these fuckers down. You don’t have any names?”

Jonas shakes his head. “Even if I did, I suspect they’d be worthless. Organizations that go around killing people—or werewolves—likely don’t keep names that can tracked down.”

“My job would probably have been a hell of a lot easier if they did,” Ethan seems to agree. “Maybe I’d have found one name cropping up around the same places at the time the kin were killed.”

Because the organization is hunting the kin. But something else is hunting us? “Why would a berserker kill the cows instead of us?”

“Maybe he came looking for your uncle but your uncle wasn’t here. And if he had no scent, that might be how he got into the workshop without alerting the dogs.”

Jonas nods. “Might be.”

“Either way, it doesn’t change a damn thing. You’ve got someone coming after you and Makena. So I’ll start watching over your place at night. That work for you?”

He asks Jonas, who it seems to work for just fine. Because this doesn’t change a damn thing, he’d said. Maybe it doesn’t change anything for Ethan. He’d known his family was being hunted—just not who was doing it.

But me…everything has changed.

And somewhere out there might be a berserker bent on revenge. I laugh, but only because a sob is working up my throat and something has to come out. “I wish MDC was still the only problem we had.”

Ethan’s gaze cuts to me. “You think I’m leaving before that’s taken care of, too?”

I can’t breathe again. Not because of grief or fear. But because he’s still leaving. That shouldn’t hit me like this. I should be glad he’s going. Maybe if I was less drunk I could be more logical and build the emotional wall I need. Maybe if I wasn’t so drunk, I could process how my life suddenly upended, how everything I thought was true is a lie, instead of suddenly feeling overwhelmed and on the edge of tears.

But I can’t process any of that. So I get to my feet, grab my bottle, and tell him, “I don’t give a shit what you do.”

And take an empty victory when I’m the one to leave. Not Ethan.

Because really, I’m just running scared.

12

ETHAN

“WELL”—A door slamming from somewhere deeper in the house interrupts Jonas for the briefest moment—“I fucked that up pretty good.”

Words that could have come straight out of my own fool head. I scared the shit out of her. My chest still aches with the memory of how she looked at me.

I wasn’t even fully transformed. I’m not sure how much I changed. Jonas’s silver blade fucked me up pretty good, too. But the pain of feeling myself torn apart still doesn’t compare to the pain of knowing how bad I scared her.

No. It was worse than a scare. A scare is jumping when a monster suddenly appears in a horror flick. Your heart races, then you laugh at yourself and the scare goes away.

Makena wasn’t scared. She was fucking terrified. Horrified by what I turned into—and then by what I did.

I can barely fucking breathe, remembering how she whimpered in that corner.

“I never thought I’d need to tell her,” Jonas continues, and I don’t know if he’s telling me or talking to himself, because his gaze is fixed firmly on his plate. “After Halima and Mikael were killed, I thought that was the end of it. I sure as hell never thought I’d have to be worried about a berserker maybe coming after Makena after all this time.”

I never figured there’d be one of the kin after her, either. But if there is, I’ll damn well do something about it.

“I’ll keep watch over the property during the nights,” I tell him.

He nods. “The hill that comes down across from the bend in the river gives you a good view of both sides. And I’ll stay close to the house.”

With that silver knife, he could probably take down a bear easier than I could. “If it is one of the bearkin, he’ll pick up my scent.” Especially if I go around marking. “That might be enough to keep him away.”

Jonas slides me a doubtful look. “Would that keep you away?”

No, it wouldn’t. But he wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t already know the answer, so I don’t waste either of our time. “What about that development company—are they located nearby?”

“They own all that property across the river that isn’t BLM lands. On this side, they’ve got the old Rudder farm. They don’t come out here much, though. Their main construction site is up through the valley. You thinking of taking a look over there, too?”

“Doesn’t hurt to look around and listen a bit. Then I’ll head up the hill here before it gets too late.”

“That’ll do. Is Makena still in the library?”

Because he knows damn well that I’ve been keeping a watch on her, even from here. Keeping a watch and feeling my heart folding in as her anger turns into grief and pain and fear.

“Is the library the room in the front corner of the house?” At his nod, I tell him, “She’s there. And seems bent on drinking that whole bottle.”

He nods and sighs. “She’ll be all right. But while she’s still pissed off and hurt, she’ll avoid the both of us. You’ll probably find a to-do list on the table tomorrow, and it might be a few days before she really talks to us again.”

Maybe she was pissed and hurt because Jonas kept the truth from her. But lying wasn’t all I did. I scared her, too. So I figure that avoidance might last a hell of a lot longer—if she doesn’t toss me off her land right away.

Jonas’s eyes narrow on me. “That scent drawing you to her…is that normal for the ones who aren’t cursed?”

“I don’t know.” I give him the truth. “But I don’t think so.”

“She’ll know. When she talks to us again. She and Mikael were always talking about that book he was supposedly writing. And after he was gone, she went over it all again. She’s probably in there pulling down all those notebooks now. So she might have an answer for you.”

If she talks to me again. Right now, remembering her terror, I’m not holding onto much hope. Maybe with more time…

But time’s in short supply. It might be that I’ll have to leave before she begins to forgive me. And I know now that the fuckers I’m hunting have poisonous silver that’ll stop me from wearing my warrior’s skin, and hurts so bad when it touches me that I can’t think or fight. I’ll be easy to kill if I don’t learn to push my way through whatever that silver does to me.

If I’m easy to kill, I won’t be coming back. But I need to. Because with enough time, Makena might get over her anger and hurt. I’ll never get that time if I’m dead.

So I have to survive. The best way of doing that is with help.

“Jonas,” I say.

The older man looks up from his plate and waits.

This is taking a hell of a risk. And it’ll end up being painful as fuck. But it’s a risk I need to take. “Do you fight with that knife much?”

He regards me with an unreadable expression for a long second. Then he says, “I could use some practice.”

Yeah. Me, too. And while we’re practicing, maybe he can tell me a bit more about this organization of hunters.

Because I’ll be hunting them next.

THE HEAVY ROCK lodged in my gut still hasn’t eased up by the time the birds start twittering and the eastern sky begins lightening. Only two days ago, I did everything I could to avoid Makena and her irresistible scent. Now I can’t bear the thought of staying away from her.

But that’s not up to me. Her uncle said she’d need some time. So I’ll give as much as she needs. I’ll stay out of her hair.

Starting with breakfast. I hear her alarm go off, her answering groan before she silences the strident beeping. Soon she’ll be heading down to take care of the barn animals. Her uncle’s already in the kitchen, banging around pots.

No need to feed me. I caught and ate a rabbit on my way back to the bunkhouse.

When I hear her leave the house and head to the barn, I jump into the shower to wash away the hillside and the splattered bits of my breakfast. With my head under the rushing water and the noise of the shower drowning out everything else, I don’t realize that she didn’t stop at the barn until she starts pounding at the bunkhouse’s front door.

Shit. That rock in my gut sits heavier. I know why she’s here. Last night, I asked her if she wanted me to leave and she snapped back that she didn’t give a fuck what I do. But she was drunk and pissed and afraid.

She’s not drunk any more. That just leaves pissed and afraid. So chances are, she’s here to tell me not to bother coming to work and to get the hell off her ranch.

Knowing that hurts like fuck. But there’s no point in putting this off.

I turn off the shower and wrap a towel around my hips, then drip a trail from the bathroom to the front door. Her footsteps are heading back across the porch when I swing it open.

Abruptly she turns, wearing the same pajama shorts and sweatshirt and tall rubber boots that she was wearing when I arrived out of the blue yesterday. But instead of a wary expression, her face is shadowed and her eyes puffy—and I bet she’s got a hell of a hangover. The faint alcohol fumes are still coming off her, mixing with the scent of her coffee, and the fragrance of her usual lotions and oils aren’t so strong. As if maybe she passed out instead of going through her bedtime beauty routine.

Surprise rounds her mouth and her eyes. Her dark gaze widens and drops to my chest, then lower, before flashing upward again. “Oh! I…” She blinks and tears her gaze away, then looks down again, then deliberately focuses in on my face. “I thought maybe you were still up in the hills. Here. This is yours. White and sweet, like you like it.”

She thrusts an insulated mug at me, and for the first time I note she’s carrying two. One for me, one for herself.

This wasn’t what I expected. Bemused, I take the mug. “Is this your polite way of sending me off? ‘Here’s something to keep you awake as you drive away?’”

“What? No. Well, maybe. I guess that depends.” Holding her mug in both hands now, as if to keep them warm, she leans back against the porch rail.

“Depends on what?”

“How much of an asshole I am, I guess.” Before I can make sense of that, she takes a deep breath and says, “I want to see you in your wolf skin.”

Not a thing she could have said would have surprised me more. “You weren’t scared enough by what you saw last night?”

I expect just the memory will kickstart her fear again. Instead embarrassment squirms through her scent and she says, “I should apologize for that.”

“For what?”

“For acting like you’d done something wrong when you…” Now a whiff of fear slips in, her fingers tightening on her mug and her gaze fixing on my mouth, as if she’s recalling razor-sharp teeth. “…changed.”

She’s not making a bit of sense. “Makena,” I remind her, “I popped out claws and fangs and crowded you into a corner.”

“Those claws and teeth came out because my uncle attacked you first,” she says. “So you defended yourself—and then I went after you. Of course you defended yourself against me, too.”

That’s all so fucking mixed up, I almost feel dizzy. Most unbelievable is the thought that I’d ever turn on her, no matter what she did to me.

Shaking my head, I tell her, “I wasn’t defending myself against you—”

“Can you just let me apologize?” she snaps, her gaze suddenly fierce. “I did wrong and I’m trying to make it right.”

From where I’m standing, the only wrong was mine, when I scared her. But I’ll do any damn thing she needs me to.

“Go on, then.”

She nods and some of the fierceness dissolves into uncertainty and hurt, as if whatever she thinks she did wrong is eating her up inside. A few seconds pass while it gnaws on her before she takes another deep breath, as if gathering courage.

“So…last night, I learned that I didn’t know my mother as well as I thought I did. Maybe I didn’t know her at all. Not even her real name.” Her voice thickens and she gazes at the mug in her hands real hard. “But when she was that person I didn’t know, she must have known people like you—the wolfkin—who weren’t cursed. And if what Jonas told us is true, that means she upended her entire existence simply because she believed the wolfkin shouldn’t be hunted or killed, and that you have the same right to live as the rest of us do. I didn’t know that woman, but I knew the one that came after. The one she changed into. And that woman taught me so much.”

Her voice thickens again and her eyes sheen with tears, and it’s all I can do to keep where I am. Because I can see she’s not done.

Swallowing hard, she continues, “One of the things she taught me is that people tend to fear what they don’t understand. And that too many people are willing to write off entire groups of other people, simply because of a few bad ones. She taught me that fear and ignorance do a lot of damage to this world—and said that if people would just take the time to get to know each other, really know each other and see each other for who they are, instead of simply caving to fear…the world would be a lot better place. Unless that person is trying to hurt or kill you—that’s the only time you shouldn’t try to meet them halfway. So are you? Trying to hurt or kill me?”

Nothing could be further from what I want to do. “No,” I tell her hoarsely.

She nods, like that’s exactly what she already thought. “Then I want to see you as you are, so I can move past ignorance and fear. Unless, of course, you don’t feel comfortable showing me,” she adds quickly. “I’d respect your privacy. Because it’s not like I’ve given you reason to trust that I won’t freak out and attack you. So if you don’t want to change in front of me, it’s okay. We’ll just go milk the cow, instead.”

Milk the cow, or turn into a werewolf. And either way, it’s because she wants to be a woman who’s better than the one she was before—or just to make the world a better place.

Her skin darkens on a flush and she averts her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.”

I don’t have to ask how I’m looking at her. I am crazy in love this woman. That truth is as stark and as clear as anything I’ve ever known. I don’t care if she sees how I feel.

But I’m terrified that the way she looks at me after I transform will be far different than how I’m looking at her. We all show different faces to different people. With strangers, with friends, with family. We let them get to know us in different ways. And when I transform, I’m still all me. But the face I’m about to show her and the part of me she’s about to meet is a hell of a lot different from the one she already knows. And it’s not a face many people would ever want to see.

Yet there’s not a damn thing in the world I wouldn’t do for her, if she asked me to.

“I’m willing to show you,” I say and carefully move closer so I can put the mug down on the porch railing. “But I need to prepare you for what you’re about to see.”

“All right.” She moistens her lips nervously. “So you…turn into a wolf?”

“Not exactly. I’m not a shapeshifter. More like a werewolf.”

Her lips quirk a little. “Like…Teen Wolf?”

I grin. “No.”

“So like something from The Howling? Or American Werewolf in London?”

“Along those lines, yeah.” And there’s a reason those are called horror movies. Most people find them horrifying.

Makena seems to brace herself in anticipation of that. “When you change, are you…more beast-like?”

She’s not talking about my appearance now, but how I’ll behave. “No. I’m just me.”

She seems relieved. “A human in a wolf coat.”

“No.” I can’t let her make that mistake. “I’m never human, Makena. Even looking like I do now.”

“Okay,” she whispers and bites her lip, staring at me, her uncertainty coming to the forefront of her scent. “Does it hurt when you change? Do you want me to look away?”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Until I kissed her, tasted her, the transformation was the best damn thing I ever felt. Like an orgasm wrapped around a long, lazy stretch following a good night’s sleep. Every muscle is stronger, most of my senses sharper. My eyesight’s about the same, but the different shape of my nose and ears mean that I can smell and hear even better than I do now. “But it’s fast—real fast. So it might surprise you. All right?”

She nods, her lips tight and her hands clutching the mug in a death grip.

“I won’t be able to talk,” I warn her and slowly sink into a crouch, so I won’t seem so big when I transform. Because it’s one thing to anticipate an eight-foot-tall werewolf appearing in front of you, and another thing to have it happen. “My mouth isn’t made for that.” It’s made for tearing, ripping. “But I’ll understand you just fine.”

Her entire body is a rigid line. “Okay.”

“Ready, then?”

She nods.

It’s no more effort than smiling, but everything shifts. My gaze remains locked on hers— but even with me crouching low, we’re almost on level now. Her scent fills me up, stronger, richer. She’s sour with fear. Her pounding heart races faster, her breaths sharp and shallow.

Swallowing hard, she says shakily, “You’re…very big.”

I grin.

Her breath sucks in on a high-pitched whistle.

I stop baring my teeth.

Closing her eyes, she takes a few long, steadying breaths. “Okay. I’m okay.”

She will always be with me.

I don’t move as she opens her eyes and studies me again, starting at my feet—which are longer now, with my weight balanced forward on massive paws tipped with deadly claws. “You’re really hairy.”

I chuff a soft laugh.

That makes her smile a little, too, her fear receding. Her gaze skims up over my legs, skips quickly over the towel concealing my cock. The ends of the towel barely meet at my waist now, so I clutch them together at my side, the covering itself about as long as a miniskirt. It probably looks fucking stupid, but looking stupid usually isn’t scary. I should have kept hold of the coffee mug, too—just another modern werewolf enjoying a crisp fall morning. All I need is Instagram, a photo of my coffee, and a #blessed, and Makena would never be afraid of me again.

“Can I see your hand?”

Not the hand holding my towel on. And the other hand is clenched at my side, because not reaching for her is killing me. Slowly I hold it out. She trembles a little as I spread my fingers and give her a good look at my claws.

“Holy shit,” she whispers and moves closer. “You could tear someone in half with those.”

I could. But I’ve never had reason to.

And I’ve never had my control tested like it is now, when she moves within reach and her scent strengthens. “Can I touch your fur?”

Please. If I could talk, I’d beg her to. But I only need to nod.

She blinks and then smiles, as if that human gesture is a reassuring surprise. If she looked down at the towel, she wouldn’t find what’s happening there so reassuring. I’ve been partially erect since she knocked at the door, even while thinking that she would fire me. Even through her apology. Now I’m fully hard and aching with her nearness.

Tentatively, she reaches out. Gently I catch her wrist. She freezes, her pulse thundering beneath my fingers.

I tap my claw near her thumb ring and hold her gaze, shaking my head.

Her eyes widen. “Oh, yeah.”

Yeah.

She switches her mug to the other hand. I hold myself absolutely still as her fingers slip over my shoulder. With me crouching, we’re almost the same height.

A soft sigh escapes her. Her expression rapt with fascination, she ruffles her hand up over the thicker fur that guards my neck. But she’s not even watching her hand. Instead she keeps her gaze on mine. “Your eyes are the same. And you…look at me the same way.”

Because there’s no other way to look at her.

Her fingers lightly smooth down the length of my muzzle. “I know you’re trying not to scare me, but I think I’m more settled now. Show me your teeth again?”

Her breath hitches slightly when I do, then the fascination returns. Her fingers slip down over my lip, then she abruptly freezes with her hand hovering near my mouth.

“Wait. If I cut myself on your teeth, does it curse me?”

I shake my head and lightly snap my teeth together to serve as the answer.

“Only a bite?” At my nod, she grins and says, “Your not being able to speak like this explains a lot about the way you are. You don’t usually say much but you’re good at saying a lot without words.”

And she’s good at doing a lot to me without words. With one fingertip, she strokes down the ivory length of a fang, a touch that brings me to the brink of desperate need.

“Holy shit,” she breathes.

Because I’m made to rip and tear. Yet she doesn’t even realize that I’m helpless right here before her. Claws and fangs can’t protect me from Makena Laine.

She skims her fingers over the edge of my bottom teeth and I can’t fucking help myself. I flick my tongue against her fingertips for a quick taste. Her flavor bursts through me and I can’t stop my soft, hungry growl.

Makena freezes.

Not in fear this time. Instead the scent that blooms is hotter, sweeter. Arousal.

Conflicted emotions follow it. Her shock and denial—but beneath it all, that honeyed scent of desire.

Jerkily she pulls her hand away. Her breath shudders and she looks everywhere but at my eyes as she says, “So, um, how do you get around? On all fours or upright or…?”

Slowly, I stand.

She stares up at me, her expression slack for a long, endless moment. But there’s still no fear. “I…” She trails off. Swallowing hard, she tries again. “You’re not just big. You’re huge.”

This time when I grin, she answers with a shaky laugh. Then her gaze drops, quickly, as if she’s telling herself she shouldn’t but can’t deny her curiosity…and she’s wondering what else is huge.

The towel’s still covering everything it should be, but it’s not hiding a damn thing. My cock’s too big and too hard, and there’s nothing else that could be jutting beneath the terrycloth like it is.

She freezes, and her breath shudders, then she averts her gaze. That curiosity flares hot with her arousal again, but she ignores it, just gulps more coffee before saying, “Okay. I’m ready for you to change back.”

Which makes me a bit smaller all over but no less hard. I pull the ends of the towel tighter around my hips. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” It sounds tremulous, but what’s coming off her scent backs up the words. Her fragrance isn’t full of terror anymore. She’s just a bit shaken. “Thank you.”

“For showing off my best parts?” I drawl lightly. “I’m always happy to.”

Her laugh lifts up everything in me to a brighter, sweeter place. Because she’s seen me—both sides of me—and isn’t running. Instead she’s eyeing me curiously again.

“What did you mean last night when you said my smell drew you in?”

Oh shit.

As if I’d said that aloud, her face closes up. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I just… I’m trying to make sense of it.”

“You and me both.” I join her at the porch rail, partially to be closer to her and partially because standing right up against it makes hiding my damn cock a bit easier. “All I know is that, three years ago, I was passing through Fortune City and picked up a scent that appealed to me like nothing ever has before. There are things that smell irresistibly good, but this wasn’t even like a smell. It was more like a rope that lassoed me and dragged me toward it.”

“So I smell…different?”

“No. That’s the thing. Everyone has their own smell, but they aren’t really that different. There’s broad scents that tell me what something is—like human or horses or grass—and the specific things that help separate them. Those horses in the barn smell almost exactly the same as each other, probably because they eat and live in the same place. But if I smell close, there’s still differences—especially if one’s a stallion and the other a mare.”

“Hormones or something affecting the scent?”

That’s probably as good an explanation as any. “With people, it’s similar. Except with different diets and different soaps and different things in their houses that all influence how they smell, and I could tell you what all of those things are. But their base scent, that individual scent that tells me they’re human and a woman or whatever—it’s different enough that I can tell, but not so different that I could explain what the difference is. And you…there’s not a damn thing about your scent that seems more different. You smell like a woman to me. And that’s it. Yet…”

Closing my eyes, I drag in a deep breath now and hold it. Sheer pleasure. And more. That gut-pulling need and hope that seems wrapped right up around my heart, and every breath just winds it tighter.

A note of self-consciousness slips into her voice. “So…do I smell like cows?”

“Not like cows. You smell so damn good, Makena.” It’s a soft growl, roughened by that need. “But I can’t tell you why.”

She seems to accept that, cupping that mug in both hands and gazing out over the river. “But that’s what brought you down the road that night?”

“It is. I figured after three years of fighting it, I’d just go see who was pulling at me.”

A little frown creases her forehead. “Fighting it?”

“Well, if something roped me in…I might not keep looking for whoever killed my family. Though considering the answers I’ve gotten so far, maybe I should have listened to that instinct instead of fighting it. Because your uncle gave me more info than I’ve gotten in eleven years of looking.” But that’s not all he said. “And he said you might know something from your father’s research notes that tells you why that scent drew me in.”

She looks at me in surprise. “His notes? I don’t think so. Maybe? I can read through again. I probably will anyway, now that I know…”

That it was all real. And thinking about the lasso reminds me of something else he said last night, though I was occupied with the agony tearing through me and the knife at my throat at the time. “What was he asking about a gold chain?”

“Oh.” Suddenly she’s all but hiding behind that mug but she can’t conceal the yearning that filters through her scent. “That has nothing to do with you. Only the ones who are cursed.”

Maybe. But that yearning makes me real curious. “Indulge me anyway.”

Her gaze flicks to mine and away. That yearning deepens a bit as she says, “There’s a cure for the curse…kind of.”

Not that I’ve ever heard of before. “Kind of?”

“Because it doesn’t make them fully human again. They’re still werewolves. But they have more control. Even during the full moon.” She cast an assessing look at me. “So they’re more like the ones who are born.”

If there was a cure, then neither of my ancestors ever found it. I still remember my grandmother talking about how she had to lock up her grandmother every full moon. I assume the same happened on the other side of the family, too. “What cures them?”

“Love.” Her color deepens again and she looks out over the river. “If the beast and the human love the same person, and that person accepts them both…it heals the internal rift between man and beast.”

“You’re bullshitting me.”

She laughs but shakes her head. “Not a bit. Not that I know whether it’s true. But it’s what I’ve read. You don’t believe love can do that?”

I believe in a lot of things that seem impossible. And I’ve got no trouble accepting that I can turn into a werewolf. It’s just that I’ve seen those.

“Love tames the beast, then? So how does a gold chain play into it?”

“The chain keeps them connected while the decision is made to accept the beast…or not. And if the beast—or the man—is rejected, they both die.”

Christ. “Falling in love sounds dangerous as hell.”

She laughs again. “If you’re cursed, yeah. It kills you or it saves you. And that decision lies in someone else’s hands—someone who has to see them at their worst yet still love them. So aside from the part where there’s an infinitely stretchable golden chain…”

She trails off, a frown flickering over her face.

“Makena?”

“Just déjà vu. Talking about this just reminded me of something my dad told me about…” She shakes her head. “But it’s gone for now. I really need to go over all his notes again. And this time, pay more attention to any mentions of hunters.”

For me. “I’d appreciate it.”

She nods, then wavers uncertainly before saying, “So are we okay? Can we start over?”

Because she still feels like what she did last night needs forgiving. That doesn’t seem necessary to me, but if it’s something she needs, I’ll give it. “Does starting over mean that you’ll forgive me for lying when I came asking about a job?”

She blinks, as if she’d forgotten all about that. “I guess I will. I certainly understand better why you did, considering that you’re a werewolf and probably didn’t want to explain that part.”

“And I understand why you attacked me, considering I held your uncle up by his throat and probably looked like I’d tear his gut open.”

Her laugh this time is short and breathless. “You did look like that.”

I know I did. And starting over sounds real damn good, except for the part where it means I’ve never kissed her. “So, starting over—this is a complete reset?”

“That’s impossible, isn’t it? We can’t just undo mistakes or forget them. But maybe, going forward…I’ll work harder to see where you’re coming from, and hopefully you’ll be able to trust that I won’t, you know, freak out again when you show me these other parts of yourself. I know it must be a big ask. If you felt safe showing who you are to people, you’d probably do it more often.”

It’s not my own safety I think of; I just don’t like scaring the shit out of people, because it’s in my nature to protect them.

But that’s not the only thing she’s got all wrong.

“It’s not a big ask,” I tell her. “But I think that you probably ought to fire me.”

Her face goes still, her eyes dark and hurt stabbing through her scent. “You want to leave?”

“No. That’s not what I meant.” I’ll have to leave, eventually. But I don’t want to. And I wouldn’t go now even if she sent me away. “But if we’re going forward without any concealment, then there’s two problems with me being in your employ. The first is that it’s just a continuation of a lie—because I never came here for a job, Makena. I came here to help you. You don’t need to hire me and pay me for that.”

She stares at me like I’ve said something stupid. “I do need to pay you, Ethan. If you still intend to work around here—”

“I do.”

“Then not paying you is against the law,” she says with clear exasperation.

“And a waste of money. Just call me a volunteer.”

Her lips tighten. “Are you working as charity, then? Because if you are, just shove that right up your—”

“Not charity.” Christ, her temper is something. Just watching her blood fire gets mine going even hotter. “But you want to go forward without me concealing who I am, yeah?”

“Yes,” she says, suddenly wary again.

“Who I am is real bossy. Which creates a problem when I’m an employee, because that means you’re always my boss. That won’t always work so well.”

Her eyebrows arch high in sheer disbelief. “So you’re going to tell me how to run my ranch?”

“Not a bit. Where I figure there might be a conflict is when I want to taste your pussy, so I order you to spread your legs. Or when I’ve got my mouth between your thighs and you’re pushing at me and squirming, but I’ll be too damn stubborn to go anywhere else. Or when I’m inside you, fucking you real good and hard, doing things that nobody should to doing to their employer. Because I get real bossy in bed and I don’t want some workplace politics shit to be a problem between us.”

She stares at me, those full lips parted, her arousal in full bloom. “That’s…not happening. We already agreed.”

“And now we’re in a reset. You said you need help around here, not someone in your bed. But I’m capable of both, Makena.”

Her gaze flicks down as if checking out how capable I am, then she looks out across the yard, blindly staring. “What I said was that I’m not interesting in a fling.”

“You know damn well that nothing between us would ever be a fling.”

She closes her eyes. “But you’re leaving.”

“I will. After your trouble is over.” No use lying. “I’ve got even more reason to now, because these hunters are likely looking for me—and if they find me here, that’ll bring danger to you and yours. Maybe more than just killing me, if they realize who you and your uncle are.”

Her gaze flies to mine. “You think they’d hurt us?”

“I think if your parents took something they thought was valuable, they’ll want it back.” I step closer to her. “But now I’ve got more ways of hunting them, too. And maybe in those notebooks, we’ll learn more about this silver.”

She nods jerkily. “So you can protect yourself.”

I don’t give a shit about that. “And protect you. I’ll find them. I’ll end them. And then, Makena…I’ll come back. Because the other part that I’m not going to conceal is that I’m fucking crazy about you. But you’ve probably already seen that anyway.”

Her breath shudders again, longing tearing across her expression before she closes her eyes. “They’ve killed so many wolfkin already. If we start a relationship here, and you go… I can’t lose any more people I care about. I can’t.”

“And I can’t let them take any more people I care about.”

Her gaze meets mine, her scent a torn and conflicted mess of hope and fear.

But fear’s winning out.

“You’re not going to fire me, are you?” I say resignedly.

“No,” she whispers, and we both know this doesn’t really have a thing to do with employment, but whether she’ll take the risk of loving and losing.

She’s not afraid of me anymore. But still afraid. And I can’t fucking blame her. I don’t know what I’ll be up against or what my chances are against these hunters. Only that they’ve taken everything else.

And maybe they will kill me. It’d be a real shame if I never kiss her again before they do.

“What if I give you reason?” I ask her.

“Reason?”

“To fire me.”

“You can’t just quit?”

“No,” I say seriously. “That would make it my decision, not yours.”

“So instead you’re going to make me want to fire you?” Amusement suddenly flares in her smile. “Like you’ll go tip a cow and after I’ve finished yelling at you, we’ll jump into bed?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. But I was thinking of a reason more like this.”

I move in quick. And if instinct guides her unthinking reactions like it does mine, then her gut must be saying to kiss me back. There’s no hesitation in her, just her soft mouth opening beneath a possessive thrust of my tongue.

Pleasure surges straight through me, sheer hunger nearly driving me to my knees. But I fucked up so bad last time I kissed her. Just the way I touched her made her walk away. Because she didn’t think a man who was leaving should kiss like I do.

This time I kiss her like a man who wants to stay. A man who’ll do everything he can to come back to her.

Makena whimpers low in her throat, pushing up against me, trying to get closer. Her head falls back as she breaks the kiss to drag in a ragged breath, but doesn’t pull away. Instead the exposed column of her throat looks like an invitation.

I can’t stop myself from accepting. I kiss the corner of her jaw, suckle lightly over the throbbing point of her pulse, where the perfume of her skin nearly sends me into a lightheaded spin.

“Your smell, your taste,” I growl between soft licks, the length of her neck like an incredible buffet. “I don’t know how I’ll ever go.”

She stiffens in my arms, trembling, before pulling away.

Damn my mouth for reminding her that I intend to leave. But maybe it’s for the best. There’s no getting around the fact that I’ll go—or that I might not be coming back when I do. And it ought to be dealt with before we can really move forward. “You all right?”

She nods, then pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s pressing back a headache or holding back tears. Her voice is raw when she says, “I just…need a little time.”

Then she’ll get time. I’ll give her anything she needs.

Even if it kills me.

13

MAKENA

“YOU NEED any help with cider press?” Uncle Jonas calls out loud enough for me to hear through the bumping grind playing in my ears.

For a second I freeze, desperately hoping he didn’t hear what just came out my mouth while I was listening to Nicki Minaj. The chances that Jonas will understand the lyrics that he just heard are zero. Still. I like to pretend that I wasn’t singing about masturbation in the middle of the kitchen.

I tug out an earbud, shaking my head. “I’m just about done.”

“All right. Then I’ll head to bed.” But he doesn’t head anywhere, hesitating in the doorway, instead. “Will you be in the library after you’re finished here?”

Which isn’t really a library, but the room we use as the ranch office. But it’s where my father used to work and write, where he filled every spare shelf with his research books, and the name stuck. It’s also where I’ve been retreating to every night this week, reading through his notes until sheer exhaustion forces me upstairs to bed.

“For a few hours, at least,” I tell him.

“Do you got a minute for me now?”

Dread suddenly builds in my chest. Because I think I know what’s coming. I haven’t just been retreating to the library all week to study. If I’m honest, I’ve been hiding from him. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Ethan, showing him the ropes around the ranch, but that isn’t the only reason I haven’t spoken to my uncle much. I’ve been avoiding this.

But I apparently can’t avoid it any longer. “Sure,” I tell him, and begin turning the wheel on the press, as if this is going to be like any other conversation on any other day.

The cider pours out of the spout in a steady golden stream. Last year I joked that it was just like milking the cow, since she urinates about the second we start squeezing her udders, and Jonas laughed until tears dripped down his cheeks. Then we spent the rest of the year asking each other if we wanted a glass of cow cider.

I don’t think either of us feels like laughing now.

“All right.” He hesitates again, but this time the delay feels heavier—just like his accent suddenly is. Which means he’s struggling with his emotions beneath that calm exterior. “I know you’ve been having a hard time since…”

He trails off, but it’s not like him to shy away from something. So maybe it’s because he can’t decide exactly what part of it all I’ve been having the hardest time with.

But since I’ve had a week to obsess over all of them, I’ve got a pretty good idea.

“Since I learned that my parents were werewolf hunters?” I help him out, and give the wheel a hard twist. “Or since discovering that they ran away from a secret organization, changed their names, and were later killed by the same kind of people they used to hunt? Or since I found out that you tracked the berserkers down and killed them out of revenge, but didn’t tell me. Or since I realized that, for the past eleven years, while everyone in town thought I went crazy in that mine, because I swore that I heard mom and dad having a conversation with the bears that killed them, you knew that I really heard them talking.”

“Yeah,” he says, and his accent’s so thick it’s practically a juh. “So maybe you’re struggling to understand why I—”

“No,” I tell him. “I get it.”

“Do you now?”

“I think so.” My throat feels tight and raw, so it takes a second to continue. “My parents never told me about their pasts, so when you became my guardian, you simply respected their decision and did the same. And after I got out of the mine”—god, I feel like I’m trapped in there now, in the tiny dark, squeezed in there like the apple mash that I’m pressing tighter and tighter—“you always told me that you believed me about hearing the bears talk, but we both know that I thought you only believed that I believed it. And you could have told me that you knew it was the truth, but then maybe you’d have to explain the rest of the truth, too, and risk me thinking that you are crazy when you say, ‘Makena, some berserkers killed your mom and dad, but I hunted them down and killed them, too. And they looked human when I stabbed them with my silver knife, so now you’re probably wondering if I’ve gone mad, but I swear they were really werebears.’ Or bearkin. Or whatever.”

“You got my voice pretty good there.” Though the faint smile that the impersonation brought to his mouth fades quickly. “I’d say you got into my head pretty good, too. Because you understand my reasons just fine.”

“But I don’t understand!” It bursts from me. “Because if I did then I wouldn’t be so mad. But I am so…so…angry at you—and at them.”

“At your folks?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.” And it’s killing me. My chest hitches and I press down as hard as I can on the wheel, because putting all the effort into this means I can’t put any effort into screaming or crying. But my voice still trembles when I tell him, “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He shakes his head. “You’re the same as you’ve been. Makena Laine. You were born after they changed their names, so—”

“No.” I stop him, and stop myself, stepping back from the press and trying to breathe. “Did you hear what I just said? You killed those berserkers and the only reason I’m upset is that you didn’t tell me. And every night when I look through my dad’s notebooks, it’s partially because I want to help Ethan find the hunters who murdered his parents, knowing that he intends to kill them, too.”

“You don’t think they deserve it? Especially knowing that they might do it to more úlfheðinn?”

“I must think they do. But that’s not even the issue.” And I’m still working through what the issue is. “Last week, if you asked me whether someone should take revenge like that, I’d have said no. I would have understood why they wanted to, but then I’d have said that it wasn’t okay, because there are rules and laws about that kind of thing. But now…”

“But now you know there’s a whole lot of shit that isn’t covered by any laws.”

And that’s the Jonas that I’ve always known, that practical man who I’m just beginning to realize has played outside laws and rules for a lot longer than I could have guessed. Even before he helped my mom and dad. It’s a man I know and don’t know.

On a shuddering breath, I tell him, “The whole world just upended.”

“I know it did,” he says. And I think he does know. That for him, it probably upended when he found my parents ripped apart, and he knew for certain that everything they’d said was true.

“So I just…don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know who they were. And I don’t know who I am now or what all of this makes me. Though I’m trying to figure it all out.”

“Through that research?”

I nod, and he sighs.

“There’s plenty of your father there, for certain. And your mother…well, you just look in the mirror, because she put a whole lot of herself into you. But you listen, Makena. If you want to know about them, just ask me and—”

“I know.” And I do. “But…I don’t think I’m ready to hear it yet. Right now it’s easier to come at it sideways, looking at what they did and why they did it.”

“All right. But just know that, in all the ways that matter, they were both the same before and after. And they were the finest two people I’ve ever known,” Jonas says in a raw voice. “At least until you grew up into the woman who is the very best parts of them.”

Tears fill my eyes in a burning rush and I desperately try to hold them back. “You’re just saying I’m so great because there’s a lot of you in me, too.”

He laughs. “I won’t argue with that. And I think that you’ll find that you’re exactly the same as you were before. You’ve got a good sense of right and wrong. It’s just that those lines aren’t so clear to you anymore, because they’ve shifted around a bit. But you’ll discover them again and they’ll settle in. Maybe it’ll just take a little while.”

“Maybe,” I say softly—but can’t let him go before I tell him this. “I love you, Uncle Jonas.”

His accent thickens like glue. “I love you, too, girl. And that’s one thing that won’t ever change.”

I know. Whatever else happens…I know he’ll love me through it.

MAYBE MY UNCLE IS RIGHT. Some things are the same as they always were. Such as the way it feels to walk into the library each night. The room used to be one of the farmhouse’s old bedrooms but Jonas and my dad installed shelves on the walls, and my dad filled it with books, a desk, and a window seat where I used to curl up and read while my dad sat at the desk, poring over texts filled with runes.

The ranch’s financials take up all the room on the desk’s surface now, along with the computer. Every time I walk in here I feel a little pang, missing him all over again. On those days when my uncle sits at the desk, the pang is deeper. Brothers, he and my dad look a lot alike, though my father wasn’t so rugged or so sunburnt all the time. That resemblance doesn’t always hit me hard—except in here, when sometimes I’ll walk in and see my father…before losing him all over again.

But tonight the library is empty, with only my memories to keep me company. Cradling a steaming mug of mulled cider between my palms, I cross over to the desk. The bare floorboards are chilly beneath my feet until I reach the thick, patterned rug that anchors the desk and chair. One of my mother’s rugs. All the bright colors in this house were hers. Everything about her was colorful, strong and fierce and full of life. I miss my dad the most in this room. But my mama…she’s everywhere in this house. There’s nowhere she didn’t touch.

In some ways, she and Jonas had more in common than she and my father did. My dad worked around the ranch—we all did—but it was her and Jonas who spent almost all their time outside. I remember them with their heads together, figuring out the pasture irrigation and grazing cycles and turning this place from the old ranch it was into a grass-fed beef operation.

Yet there was never any doubt where the love was. My fierce mama and studious father were electric together. When I was old enough to notice, I remember how they’d look at each other. As if they were each other’s entire world. It’s how I recognized so easily the way that Ethan looks at me.

But their feelings developed over years together. Not because of some mysterious scent that pulled my dad to my mom, as if a chain dragged him close and kept him from leaving.

My throat tightens and I sit down at the computer—because not everything has changed. And I still know wrong from right. So a few minutes later, an internet search yields what I’d hoped to find—a few ounces of a dried wildflower that will break that chain. A few clicks, and it’s done. Fifteen dollars plus shipping and handling. A low price for Ethan’s freedom.

But an ache builds in my chest with every click, and suddenly the library isn’t the bastion of comfort that it usually is. Instead the entire room seems to be closing in on me. On a ragged breath, I push away from the desk, grab my mug and one of my father’s notebooks, then head for the front door.

Outside, I’m met by a chorus of crickets. Moths flutter madly around the porch light. Summer still has a firm hold on the days, but autumn has begun taking crisp bites into the nights. Goosebumps tighten the skin on my bare legs as I stand on the porch, looking out into the dark.

I don’t see anyone—or hear anyone. Since he stays out all night, watching over the ranch, Ethan has taken to sleeping in the hours between dinner and when Jonas goes to bed. I’m not certain if he’s already out there—a giant werewolf haunting the hills overlooking the pasture—or if he’s still asleep in the bunkhouse.

“Ethan?” I whisper, just in case he’s somewhere nearby.

When there’s no answer, I head for the porch swing at the south end of the house. Just enough light spills through the library window to see by as I curl up in the corner of the swing. Since it’s still too hot to drink, I place the cider within reach on a side table made from the stump of an oak tree.

The current notebook looks like my father’s initial attempts to cross reference various Native American shapeshifter legends with early berserker and werewolf lore. Questions written in the margins tell me that he was searching for any evidence of whether early Scandinavian explorers might have picked up the curse in the Americas and took lycanthropy back to Europe with them. Then…nothing. Because this was one of the last things that he’d been researching before being killed.

“You all right?” Ethan’s deep, rumbling voice comes quietly out of the dark.

My heart jolts against my ribs. I glance up, searching for him. There. Near the cherry tree that shades the porch. Amber eyes gleam in the faint light.

Through the shadows, I make out his shape—human, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his thick hair rumpled. But in truth, I see the same thing that I’ve seen every time I’ve looked at him in the past week.

Not the werewolf. Though maybe I should.

Instead I see him, still dripping wet from his shower, his dark hair slicked back and wearing nothing but a towel. I don’t picture lethal teeth and razored claws and shaggy fur, but acres of thick muscle darkened by crisp hair, hands that so sweetly and gently pulled me closer, and a mouth that kissed me until I was practically climbing his big body.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he adds softly. “I’ll make more noise next time.”

I shake my head. “You didn’t scare me.”

“No? Your heart’s beating like a jackrabbit’s.”

Not because I’m scared. But I’ll let him think so. “You can hear that?”

“I can. Just like I heard you calling me. Did you find something in those notebooks?”

I…didn’t call him. But I did whisper his name a few minutes ago. “Where were you?”

“The bunkhouse.”

I take in that rumpled hair again, and simply imagining him in bed sends heat rushing through me. “Did I wake you up?”

“No. I’d just changed and was on my way out.”

Changed. But not into clothes. At least, I don’t think that’s what he means. Because he’s wearing them now. “Do you go out in clothes?”

“Not unless I want to do my best Hulk impersonation and rip them apart.”

I laugh. “So you don’t end up a werewolf Freddie Mercury in super tight pants? Because that’s what I was imagining.”

“That’d be good for expanding my vocal range when I howl. But mostly clothes just rip.” Amusement deepens his reply. “And I figured you’d appreciate me putting on something before I came over here. Though if I’m wrong, I’d be happy to take them off again.”

Another flash of Ethan standing in his towel passes behind my eyes. “Clothes are good,” I say a little breathlessly.

“Okay, then.” His grin is a glint of teeth through the dark. “So you had something to tell me?”

Because he still thinks I called his name. And I didn’t, but…now is as good a time as any to tell him what I’ve found in my father’s notebooks. Nothing huge, unfortunately—like the names of the hunters my parents worked with—or I’d have already let him know.

“A few things. And…” This is a totally awkward way to have a conversation. He’s almost fifteen feet away, and I can barely make him out in the shadows beneath the tree. But staying away isn’t like Ethan at all. “Is there a reason you’re all the way over there? Are you covered in blood or something?”

“No. But I woke up real hungry, Makena. So I figured it’d be best to stay over here.”

“So you don’t eat me?” I laugh. “If you’re that hungry, there’s leftovers in the…”

Oh. His meaning hits me a second too late and I flounder, trying to switch gears. “So you’ve got it all contained, though? Nothing is about to do a Hulk impersonation and wreck your pants?”

His laugh rolls out. “That sounds more like the Kool-Aid Man.”

I grin at that image, then tilt my head to indicate the seat beside me. “But you can control it, right? So…”

“I can control it,” he confirms, silently striding out of the shadows on bare feet. I can’t stop myself from checking out the state of his pants as he comes closer… And, oh lordy. He is definitely on the verge of wrecking those jeans. Yet he moves as if that enormous bulge is no impediment at all, easily vaulting over the porch rail. “The question is whether I will control it, considering I’m still trying to get fired.”

I know that he’ll control it. He has all week—giving me time, just as I asked. “Then you shouldn’t go around re-shingling a barn roof in a single afternoon,” I point out. “That’s the best way to make sure you never get fired.”

“I’ll try harder, then.” The swing creaks as he lowers his weight onto the seat. Then I squeak as his big hand circles my ankle and draws my foot into his lap.

“What are you doing— Oh my god.” Because what he’s doing is using his thumbs to massage the arch of my foot.

I groan and lean back, letting him do as he wants. And if this is just another reason to fire him, well—I’ll add it to the top of all the other reasons he’s given me this week. He hasn’t even kissed me again. He’ll flirt and tease when we work together, but it’s gone no further than that. And by god, he works. The barn roof was just the start of it. He works quick and smart and strong…and then stays up all night, watching over the ranch.

The truth is, he’s putting in far more labor than any employee ever should. Ranching already means long hours. And those hours aren’t always regular. But Jonas and I always try to keep those hours fair for our hands and never ask them to put in more time than we do. But Ethan has been.

I frown, studying his face. If the hours are wearing on him, I can’t see it. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Yeah.” His voice is rougher, deeper.

“Are you sure? Because you’re up all night, so—”

“I’m sure. I don’t need much sleep, and I’m real good at napping on my feet.”

And good at rubbing them. I sigh with pleasure when he grabs my left foot and starts in on my heel. “Why does this never feel as good when I do it myself? It’s like washing hair. It always feels so much better when someone else does it.”

“You let me into your shower, I’ll do that for you, too.”

I laugh. “Yeah, no. Washing this hair is a process. Not playtime.”

“Then I’ll just sit here and admire the results of that process.” He inhales now, then growls softly, “You smell like apples.”

“From the cider. Do you want some? I’ve got regular and mulled, which is amazing if you add just a tiny splash of bourbon.”

His gleaming eyes narrow. “Are you trying to ply me with liquor, Makena?”

That’s an interesting question. “Could you be plied with liquor?”

Slowly he shakes his head, then closes his eyes on a long inhalation. “You don’t need to. Your scent is more intoxicating than any drink.”

My scent. Which brought him here—this man who inadvertently opened the door on a family history that I knew nothing about, turning my world upside down. A man who I can so easily imagine as part of my future. Because how many times have I pictured something like this? Sitting on a porch swing after a long day’s work, talking easily without really saying much, with someone who makes me smile and laugh. With someone who’s completely ordinary yet also completely extraordinary. Someone I can sit still with, but who also makes my pulse jump. I could imagine so many more nights and days with Ethan.

Except he’s leaving. And he’s not really here for me anyway. Just some strange pheromone that’s affecting him against his will, considering that he spent three years fighting it. And although he says that once he tracks down his family’s killers, he’ll be back…I guess we’ll see. Because the wildflowers I just ordered will change everything.

With a heavy sigh, I pull my foot from his hand. He resists for only a moment before reluctantly letting go, then watches me with hooded eyes as I curl my legs beneath me.

“You all right?” he asks softly.

“Yeah.” Mostly. Except for the painful longing that’s tearing at me again. “Just thinking about how different everything is from what I expected it to be.”

He nods. “Discovering that werewolves are—”

“Not that.” I stop him and reach for my cider, wishing that I’d added a large splash of bourbon instead of a tiny one. “I mean… Before your family was killed, what did you imagine your life would be? Would you have stayed in the military?”

“For a few years, sure.”

“And then?”

“Go home. Settle down.”

With a family. Just imagining him with another woman makes my chest ache, so I skip over that. “What kind of job would you have wanted?”

“Something in law enforcement or in the fire department.”

“Like your parents were,” I remember.

He nods. “My brother, too. You might say protecting and serving is in the Grimmson blood.”

No kidding. “I’d say it literally is.”

He looks at me curiously. “What do you mean by that?”

“That the wolfkin were warriors. They weren’t conquerors, though—they didn’t use their strength to further their own interests. Their role was to protect and serve their king. And if he was a conqueror…well, that’s a different story.”

He nods, accepting that as easily as he does every bit of information about the wolfkin. “And what about you? Is ranching in your blood?”

A laugh escapes me. “Apparently not. Though a week ago, I thought it must be. But instead I’ve got hunting and books in my blood. So maybe that’s why I intended to go to college and run all over the world.”

“You didn’t picture yourself on the ranch?”

“No, I intended to be far, far away. To get the hell out of Fortune City. Not because I hated it or anything, I just…planned to make my own way.”

“Doing what?”

“I had no idea. I didn’t have a calling, so I just assumed that I’d figure it out as I went along. So my only plan was to attend college and travel some.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No. Not after…” But I don’t want to dwell on my parents’ deaths now. “I could have. Jonas would have been all right on his own. But after they were gone… I don’t know. The ranch was a link to them.”

“You are a link to them. No matter where you go. That’s one thing I know for sure, Makena. My family ain’t in our homestead back in Montana. I carry them with me.”

“I know you’re right. But I still like feeling them around me.” The ranch. The rings. Absently rubbing the silver on my thumb, I ask, “Will you go back after you find their killers?”

“Yeah, I’ll go back home and settle down, just as I always intended. But home ain’t a place to me. It’ll be wherever you are.”

As long as he can smell me. That ache in my chest deepens. “It’s funny, though. We both did exactly the opposite of what we intended.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, I meant to leave home but didn’t go anywhere. And you meant to go home but have been moving around ever since.”

“Considering that drifting around brought me here, I can’t be sorry.” As the warmth of that statement spills through me, he asks gruffly, “And you? Do you regret staying?”

“No. Because I wouldn’t trade this for anything else.” A wry laugh breaks from me. “Clearly. Because if I would, I’d have taken MDC’s money and gotten the hell out of here.”

“So you don’t want to travel anymore?”

“Sure I do. But not always. A vacation here and there. Then always coming back.” I rub the ring on my thumb a little harder. “But maybe I should.”

“Should what?”

“Just sell. Maybe I’m holding on for the wrong reasons. Because it’s a link to my parents but now I don’t even know who they really were. So maybe it’s just…foolish.”

Ethan catches my chin, makes me meet his steady gaze. “It’s not.”

Just that simple. And that sure. Throat tight, I nod.

His thumb brushes my lips and he lets me go. A push of his foot sends the swing into gentle motion. For a long minute there’s only the creak of the chain and the song of the crickets.

At least for me. I can’t imagine what all he must hear. Perhaps fish leaping in the river. The breeze whispering through the leaves. The gathering wetness between my thighs.

Oh god. He can probably smell it. Because he hasn’t said anything, but…

Face flaming, I squeeze my legs tighter together and awkwardly clear my throat. “So… I’ve been going through my father’s notes—hoping to find something that will point you toward these hunters.”

He nods, silently watching me, waiting for me to continue.

“There isn’t much.” No flashing arrows, unfortunately. “But there is one bit that I thought might be helpful. Because the group was formed after Jean Chastel killed the Beast of Gévaudan, and at first the king paid for everything. But then what happened?”

He catches on. “The French Revolution happened.”

“Right. And goodbye to any royal funds. But the hunters are still traveling everywhere, seem to have a ton of resources, and so on. So where’s the money coming from? We’re talking hundreds of years.”

He nods thoughtfully. “The church?”

“Or a cabal of nobles with lots of money.”

“Some Illuminati shit?”

“Maybe. But I keep going back to ‘hundreds of years.’ Through uprisings and world wars and completely different political landscapes. You’d think someone would have cut them off. Some politician or aristocrat would have laughed and said ‘Werewolves, really?’ and stopped funding them.”

“Unless they have their own source of funds. A business that can serve as a front.”

“A business that can be used to legit travel. And maybe a business they can use to help themselves along the way, marking up prices and using the extra profits to pay for the werewolf hunting activities. So I’d vote for jewelry—or something like a silversmith or a mining operation—because it has the added bonus of giving them access to a supply of silver.”

“That…would make a hell of a lot of sense,” he says slowly. “And might give me a new angle to look at.”

“Yeah. I mean, not that you should go slashing up Tiffany & Co. But when you’re looking at all these murders, it might be another thread to pull that can get you closer. And maybe that means if you run across someone who was connected to the scene in some way, and who might have something to do with precious metals and jewelry or something similar…you take another look at them. Or, in your case, go take another smell at them.”

He nods. “That’s good thinking.”

“Only if it’s right.” I sigh. “Because I was thinking about the money issue, but I might have fixated on the jewelry due to his notes. Because it looks like he was trying to trace the source of this silver.” I tap my mother’s ring. “Are you really impervious to steel and fire?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Is that in the notes, too?”

“No, that’s just part of the berserker legend. They weren’t only fierce and deadly, but steel and fire couldn’t touch them. So anyone with a sword or a torch was out of luck. What about lead bullets?”

“They hurt about as much as a bee sting. Unless it’s a yellow jacket. I’d rather get shot than step on a nest of yellow jackets.”

Remembering plenty of my own encounters with the vicious little fuckers, I have to agree. But I also have no real comparison. “Does that mean you’ve been shot?”

He nods.

“In the army?”

“A few times. Mostly at home, with my family shooting at me.”

“What?”

“For practice,” he says easily, as if that’s totally normal. “If something attacks me or hurts me, the instinct is to transform. But I was going overseas into a war zone. So I practiced being shot.”

“Wow.” So wow. I can barely wrap my head around it. “I mean, it makes sense. But wow.”

And something tells me that if a bullet really felt like a bee sting, there wouldn’t be a need to practice.

“Truth is, it wasn’t a lot of fun at the time,” he admits. “But I was grateful for it. The army doesn’t take kindly to a soldier who goes around changing into a werewolf and howling like a baby just because someone fires a tiny piece of lead at my ass.”

I have to laugh at that. “I bet.”

“Anyway, I figure that’s what parents do. They prepare you for the shit you might run into. Even if they don’t tell you it’s real or don’t think you’ll ever need it.”

He’s not talking about his family using him for target practice now. And…he’s not wrong. My parents must have prepared me for a world with werewolves in it, because I feel as if I’ve been taking the news rather well. All things considered.

And maybe they meant to tell me the truth, at some point. They couldn’t have known they were going to die—and how little time we’d have together. Yet they still left something that I could protect myself with.

His gaze falls to the ring around my thumb that I’m absently rubbing again. “You were saying something about that silver? Something from his notes about jewelry?”

“Oh.” I try to get my thoughts back on track. “So I was thinking that they probably didn’t use raw silver, especially at the beginning. Instead they must have melted down jewelry and whatnot and made their weapons. But at some point, they realized that some silver was…”

“Like poison to werewolves and could kill us.”

“But not only kill you. It keeps you from transforming, right?”

His reply is nothing but a nod accompanied by a low growl, as if not being able to transform angers him more than the part where it might kill him.

“So at first it looks as if the organization was searching for something that had been done to the silver.”

“Like a spell?”

“Maybe. Or something like the flower they used to make you all noseblind. That’s not magic; it’s just…tea. So they were hoping for, you know—”

“Add a pinch of salt, an eye of newt, get killer silver.”

“Exactly. Which would have been great for them, because then they can make a lot of it. But my dad starts thinking a different way. That maybe it’s not something done to the silver, but maybe there’s something special about where that silver originated. But the problem is, it’s all melted down together. So how do you know?”

“You can’t.”

“Unless you find a piece of jewelry that you can trace back to its origin. And that’s what I found in his notebook. There’s a necklace that he started looking at, searching for the craftsman and where he got his silver.”

“Did he find the source?”

“Yeah. He found it here. On the ranch.”

“You’re bullshitting me.”

I wish I was. Shaking my head, I tell him, “This place didn’t start out as a cattle ranch. Back in the day, it was part of the big silver rush and mining boom.”

“And your family bought it.”

“Yeah.” A deep pang thrums in my chest. “Mama always said they picked this place because she used to love those old spaghetti westerns, and becoming a cowboy and living a simple life appealed to her. But now I think…they took all that silver when they ran, and they wanted to make sure those hunters didn’t get their hands on more.”

“So they were protecting this place.”

Throat tight, I nod. “Which is just another reason not to ever sell.”

“To make sure more of that silver never gets out, or carrying on their legacy?”

“Maybe both.” Maybe it’s the same thing.

He nods, his amber gaze thoughtful. “How do you figure they knew about the necklace?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s nothing about that silver that looks or smells any different than other. So how do you figure he knew the necklace was the right kind? Did the hunters ask a werewolf to model some jewelry?”

A sick weight fills the pit of my stomach. “Maybe the hunters had someone that was…tested on.”

“Yeah,” Ethan agrees grimly. “And your parents sound like good people. So maybe the reason they left wasn’t just a disagreement with the direction that the new leader was taking them in.”

“Maybe,” I say softly. Hopefully.

Ethan falls quiet for a moment, giving the swing another little push. “Where’s this mine, then?”

“The entrance is up near Rudder’s place. But it’s sealed up. Jonas made sure it was after I was… After—” And I can’t. My lungs start caving in as memories flash by, of the screams and the bony spider and the skittering of something through the dark, probably just mice but if I’m locked in there long enough they’ll gnaw me down to nothing, there’d be nothing to find—

“Hey, now.” Warm hands cup my cheeks and Ethan’s rough voice begins pulling me out. “Breathe, Makena. Breathe.”

My gaze locks with his. The panic attack has closed up my chest but there’s the light ahead, shining with that soft amber glow, and I can see my way out.

Ethan.

My breathing eases, but the shivers set in, shaking me violently against him. He frowns, rubbing at my arms, my bare legs.

“You’re freezing.”

No. I’m just…rocked. To my very core.

Jerkily, I pull my legs away from his hands. He goes still, watching me.

“You’re okay?”

I nod, then stumble over a simple, “I’m just going— Going to go inside. And get a blanket.” Though I’m not cold. I’m just running away…again. “But I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll wait for you,” he says.

14

MAKENA

HOW CAN REALIZING that you are absolutely safe with someone make you more terrified than ever?

I don’t know the answer to that. But that’s exactly what happened. With his strength and his warmth, Ethan pulled me out of a panic attack—

—and dragged me straight to the edge of falling for him.

Stopping in the middle of the living room, I look blindly around, my heart thundering in my chest. Because I ran away from him. Because I could feel myself falling and I thought, If I just get away, I’ll be safe. But I know that I won’t be. I knew it from the very beginning. Ethan is going to do so much damage to my heart.

So what can I do now? Keep pushing him away? Keep fighting it?

I don’t know.

Breath shuddering, I force myself to move. I came in here for a blanket, supposedly. So I swipe the quilted throw from the sofa—and abruptly stop, my gaze arrested by the framed photograph propped on the fireplace mantel.

My parents and me. Taken when I was sixteen, at the high school gym shortly after a varsity volleyball game. I’m sweaty and laughing, standing between them with my arms around their waists, and they’re both beaming at the camera—at Carrie, who’d taken the photo for us.

Just a moment in time, but there were so many moments like this. And less than a year later, they were dead.

My heart clenches as I focus on my mother’s face. Of my parents, she was always the one who pushed me harder, punished me more severely, and expected more out of me. She also loved me unreservedly.

So she wouldn’t be disappointed that I’d skipped college, because she would see how hard I work, how much I’ve done to continue improving the ranch. She’d have been proud of what I’ve accomplished. But she probably would have also sat me down and pointed out something that I didn’t even realize, until tonight.

Because I told Ethan that we did the opposite of what we’d both intended. I stayed home and he started drifting. But the truth is…I’ve been drifting, too. Not going anywhere, physically. But letting life carry me along, as if I’m a stick floating on the river, and never fighting too hard against the current.

I’m exactly where I want to be. That’s true. But my life’s not all that I want it to be. And I pushed Ethan away after his kiss brought me face-to-face with what I’ve been missing.

And I pushed him away because I wouldn’t have it forever.

But maybe nothing is forever. I look at my parents’ smiling faces, and I can imagine my mother’s voice so clearly. Because if I asked my mama whether she’d have pushed my father away when she met him, if she’d have sacrificed all these happy moments, because she knew it would end with screaming and pain…she’d have called me as stupid as a brick.

Also stupid, though? Sticking your arm into a thresher. You just end up with a mangled limb and covered in blood. Is it really much different if you knowingly throw your heart into a thresher, instead? Because I’ve got a feeling that when Ethan leaves, it’ll chew mine up pretty good.

So I don’t know the answer. But I do know my mama would tell me that no one else can make this decision, except for me.

And I still don’t know what that decision will be. But standing here wallowing in uncertainty and fear isn’t going to help, either.

With a sigh, I put away the photograph and head outside, carrying the quilt. Ethan’s waiting for me, but not in the swing. Instead he’s standing stock still at the porch rail, with his head tilted slightly. Not really looking at anything but more like…he’s listening.

“Do you hear something?”

“Engine,” he says softly. “Up past Rudder’s property. But heading this direction.”

I frown. There’s nothing up that way except a tangle of back roads that are nothing more than bare tracks of dirt. Every once in a while people will head out that way, but I haven’t seen anyone drive past the ranch all day. But they might have gone up into the hills somewhere else, driven through the maze of roads, and this is just where they’re coming out. That happens quite a bit more often when—

Oh shit. I laugh, shake my head. “I know what that is.”

He glances back at me, eyebrow arching. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I take my place on the swing again, spread the quilt over my legs. “Deer season starts tomorrow. Either they’re looking for a place to camp out, or they’re hoping to get a little jump start on everyone else. Because by dawn, you’re going to be hearing a whole lot of engines up in those hills. Lot of gunfire, too.”

Relaxing out of that utterly still listening stance, he pushes away from the rail, heading back this way. “That’s why I prefer claws. They’re a hell of a lot quieter.”

“Except if whatever you’re tearing apart is screaming.”

“Any hunter who can’t make a quick kill shouldn’t be hunting at all.” The swing jolts and creaks under his weight as he sits, then he falls quiet, his gaze searching my face. “You’re all right?”

Because I ran out of here after nearly freaking out on him. “Yeah.”

“We don’t have to talk about that anymore.”

The mine. Since the mere thought of it tightens up my chest again, he’s probably right. But I shake my head. “Maybe not about it specifically. But I think it’s important. At least the silver is. So is knowing where it’s from. Because my dad, he wanted to know why the silver was different. And if you know that…”

“Maybe I can figure out why it affects me. And stop it.”

“Yeah. So.” I really wish my cider had more than a splash now, but I take a long drink, letting the warmth settle in. “In his notebooks, he has a couple of theories about what affected the silver. But his favorite was that this silver mine is where Gleipnir was buried.”

“Who the hell is Gleipnir?”

“A what, actually. A gossamer ribbon that was used to bind Fenrir, the wolf god.” Laughing at the look he gives me, I add, “Okay, so—my dad focused on how the silver basically binds the beast.”

“Feels more like it damn near rips that part of me right out.”

“Which might be the same thing for you. It doesn’t let you transform—or unleash that beast warrior, essentially. Because you’re bound. And there are a bunch of legends and stories where that happens, and objects that go along with it. Like the collar that subdues Surma at the gates of Tuonela, or the lasso that bound Ahriman so he could be ridden—oh, and that’s a fun story. Ahriman eats the king who enslaved him, and then the king’s brother drags his corpse out of Ahriman’s anus while they’re having sex. So Gleipnir was a—”

“Hold up. You’re just going to throw anuses and corpses into the conversation and move on like it’s nothing?”

“Yep.”

“Fair enough. So this ribbon is one of those legendary artifacts?”

“Right. The story goes that the Norse gods used it to bind Fenrir, then they tied the other end to a giant rock and buried it as deep as they could.”

“In Idaho,” he says flatly.

Laughing at that deadpan observation, I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe they buried it so deep that it just about came out the other side of the world.”

“Just like the king that got eaten, until his brother pulled him out the other end.”

“Exactly like that,” I tell him. “Because I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that Fortune City is the asshole of the world.”

Ethan closes his eyes and bows his head, and the swing starts wobbling with the force of his silent laughter.

Watching him, all that longing winds me up tight again. I’ve never been so at ease with anyone. Although…I’m not completely at ease, but prickly and deliciously aware of all that solid strength and those rough edges.

It really is going to kill me when he goes. From the beginning, I knew that was a danger. And I wish there was some magic ring to protect me, too. But there’s not.

Ethan finally lifts his head, wipes his eyes. “So, you think that’s what it is? Some ribbon that can bind a wolf, and its magic is bleeding out into the rock where it’s anchored?”

“No clue,” I tell him honestly. “Though I’m pretty sure that’s the angle my dad was leaning toward. I even remember talking about it with him, kind of. Not saying that Gleipnir was buried in our silver mine. But I started thinking about that story last week when I told you about the gold chain that connects a cursed werewolf to the person who can tame the beast’s heart. That’s supposedly really long and unbreakable, too. Though also totally different. It doesn’t subdue the beast.”

“That’s what you and your dad talked about—how to subdue a werewolf?”

I shake my head. “No, we were actually debating magic versus science. Because the way that story goes, the gods believed Fenrir would be dangerous, so they needed him bound. So the gods asked the dwarves to make a chain he couldn’t break, and they forged Gleipnir, which was a thin gossamer ribbon that they claimed would be impossible to break because it was made from impossible things.”

“Like what things?”

“Oh shit. Let me think.” It’s been a while since I’ve read this part. “I think it was the sound of a cat’s steps, the root of a mountain, the breath of a fish, the nerves of a bear…and a few more, but I’d have to look them up. Anyway, I argued that those things might have seemed impossible then, but we know they aren’t now. I mean, maybe we can’t hear a cat walking around—”

Ethan flashes a wolfish grin. “I can.”

Braggart. I playfully shove at his shoulder and keep going. “So can modern audio equipment. And we know the roots of a mountain can be lava. And that fish have lungs and they get their oxygen in the water.”

“So the old ‘magic is just science that we don’t understand yet’ bit.”

“Yes! Exactly. So I told my dad that Gleipner would be breakable now, because those things weren’t impossible now.”

Ethan nods as if he’s agreeing, then says, “I don’t think that’s right.”

“No?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Not regarding that ribbon. I don’t know anything about it, so you might be right there. I’m talking about magic just being science that’s misunderstood. Maybe it’s true of some things…but I think most magic is just magic. And has a magical explanation, not a scientific explanation.”

“Really?”

He nods again. “Science has a whole lot to say about the impossibility of a man my size becoming a werewolf that’s eighteen inches taller and a hundred-fifty pounds heavier—conservation of matter and all that. And there ought to be a nuclear explosion every time I shift from my warrior form to my human form, because all that mass supposedly becomes energy, and that’s the only way science can account for the loss. Considering that nothing’s blowing up, I figure that energy is something else. Some kind of magic. I’ve got no trouble accepting that.”

“I do,” I tell him and he grins.

“Then take my DNA, for instance. If you sent it into a lab for testing, the results would come back one-hundred-percent human.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You sound as if you already know that for sure.”

“I do. Because it’s something that my dad did. He took samples from all of us when we were wearing our different skins, and sent them in to a friend at the crime lab. And there wasn’t anything remarkable about them. No genetic anomalies, nothing.”

“That’s…actually kind of surprising.”

“We weren’t really expecting that, to be truthful. We figured the results would come back saying they were contaminated with wolf DNA or something. But they weren’t.”

“Okay, but—”

“Now you’re going to say that maybe the lab tech didn’t know the right thing to look for yet. Because the science hasn’t evolved that far.”

I hate that he’s right, because that’s exactly what I was going to say. But I love that he’s obviously thought about this. “Well…yeah.”

“And that’s a good argument for you, because as long as science lags behind magic, you can keep saying it.” His eyes gleam, as if he’s enjoying this little debate, too. “But me, I start looking at the other evidence. Such as how the curse is spread by biting. I bet you think it’s kind of like a virus.”

Damn it. Right again. But at least this time he didn’t get it all right. “Or it could be a fungus.”

He snorts out a laugh. “You think I’m infected with a fungus?”

“Like a zombie ant,” I say with a grin. “Because it changes the ant’s behavior so the fungus can reproduce. And the curse kind of does the same thing: on the full moon, it turns people into monsters who go around attacking and biting other people, spreading the curse…like a virus.”

“And you told me yourself that the cure for the behavioral change is love,” he points out in a low voice. “What is that, if not magic?”

I have no idea. But I’m pretty good at pulling answers out of my ass. “Well, since some of you are born instead of bitten, sexual reproduction is also a way of spreading it. So maybe love releases endorphins or some other hormone that tells your fungus to settle down and protect their mate and offspring.”

He started laughing somewhere around ‘endorphins.’ “Love sure as hell ain’t necessary to sexually reproduce.”

“I didn’t say the fungus was smart.”

“Maybe it’s a real romantic fungus. The kind that enjoys drinking red wine at fancy restaurants and hunting virgins under the moonlight,” he suggests and then waits until my giggles subside before adding, “And what about transmission, then? I bite you, I curse you. So it’s in my saliva? But I kissed you pretty good the other day and you aren’t changing.”

Better than pretty good. And simply being with him has left me hot and aware, and this fun debate adding a dimension of challenge that is sexy and thrilling. But simply mentioning that kiss sends the memory of it washing over me again, as if those sensations had simply been bottled up within me since then, waiting to be released.

Ethan has infected me with something in that kiss. And the debate suddenly takes on another dimension. No longer just fun conversation, but charged with more.

But this time I don’t have to make up an answer. It’s clear. “Obviously it’s because the saliva has to get into the bloodstream. That’s why the bite.”

“You think? So I probably ought to make sure you haven’t bitten your tongue the next time I kiss you.” He’s leaning closer, those amber eyes hypnotic.

“You probably should,” I agree breathlessly.

“Or we can perform a scientific experiment right here.” A shiver wracks my body as he gently grips my fingers and brings my hand to his mouth, and presses his lips to the side of my wrist. “Because I smelled this bit of blood earlier. What’d you do here?”

The way my heartbeat’s thundering in my ears, it takes a second to process his question. Then I realize he’s referring to the small cut on my wrist bone—just one of the myriad injuries that any rancher suffers to their hands. Most of them, I don’t even notice. “I whacked it while setting up the cider press.”

And he licks that cut. One long, hot swipe of his tongue.

My heart catches in my throat.

“Now,” he says gruffly, “maybe you’re worried that’ll curse you.”

At this moment, that’s the furthest thing from my mind. But it’s true that lick did something to me. My blood feels heavy and slow, thick and hot in my veins.

“I’m damn sure that it won’t, Makena. It takes a bite—a deliberate bite—and I wouldn’t ever risk cursing anyone. But especially you.”

“Why especially me?”

“Because I’d be terrified that I’d never get that gold chain.”

The chain that connects a cursed werewolf to the person who owns their heart. But he doesn’t need to bite me to get that. Already there’s something here, strong and unbreakable.

And I longed for something exactly like that…but not like this. Not with him. Because he’s still going to leave. And although he wants to come back, god knows if he really will.

I didn’t want to lose my heart to Ethan Grimmson. But I am losing it anyway. And I didn’t want to risk losing someone else that I care about.

But the grief and pain of losing someone isn’t just losing the person; it’s losing all the time I could have had with them. And since I can’t protect my heart, the choice I have is to either waste the short time that I’ll have with Ethan…or make the most of it.

Strange that the scariest part of being with a werewolf in the dark is this small movement. The swing wobbles as unsteadily as my nerves as I rise up onto my knees. The quilt slides down to puddle on the seat, and I straddle his lap with my gaze even with his.

He’s utterly still, his muscles like steel—and his cock rock hard beneath me. “You firing me, then?”

I have made a decision—a choice that feels like an enormous leap within me. But perhaps that choice is as brave as I get tonight, because saying it aloud takes more courage than I have right now.

So instead I tell him, “Maybe I’m just…writing you up.”

“For bad behavior?” The gleam in his eyes tells me how much he enjoys that thought.

And I like it, too, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Because he’s been so very good. Giving me time. Working so hard. I’d be a fool to fire him.

I’d be a fool to keep wasting all this time, when I could be kissing him.

Yet I’m still wasting it.

He reads my hesitation just as well as he reads everything else that I do. “Since we aren’t really talking about my employment, does that mean a write-up is just another way of saying you’d like to take this one step at a time?”

Mutely I nod, because he found the words I couldn’t. One step at a time. Even though we’ve already taken so many steps—and not just the two kisses we’ve shared. It feels as if kissing’s the least we’ve done. Emotionally, I’ve been running flat out in Ethan’s direction since the second I stopped beside his broken-down truck. And no matter how I tried to run the other way, I just kept heading toward him, with need and desire barely keeping pace. My heart’s been racing so fast that it left those kisses in the dust.

And a kiss couldn’t have a hope of catching up to the way he’s looking at me now. As if he’d give me everything. Maybe he can see everything I want in the way I’m looking back. Carefully, making certain not to let my rings touch him, I trace my fingertips down the side of his face, the stubble covering his jaw lightly rasping beneath my skin.

“You said you like being the boss,” I tell him. “But hold back for me? Just for a little bit.”

“Anything you want, Makena.” His vow is harsh with restrained need. Because he’s hungry but controlling it.

I reach back and grip the top of the swing, because I’m not so certain of my own restraint, and whether I’ll remember not to touch him with that hand. My pulse thunders in my ears as I lower my head, and I wonder if he still hears each bump and splash in the night, or if his world is narrowing like mine is, until there’s nothing but the feel of his rigid muscles and thick arousal between my thighs, the rough wood beneath my curling fingers, his hot breath against my lips.

And maybe he’s right about science. There’s surely a logical explanation for the pounding of my heart, the liquid desire melting through me. Some kind of chemistry that accounts for it all.

But the first brush of my mouth over his feels like magic, too. Something that shouldn’t make such perfect sense…yet it does. And perhaps my physical response can never close the distance that my heart has already run, but this kiss is going to try. With nothing more than a soft press of lips, a mingling of breath, desire burns an electrifying path over every inch of my skin before burrowing under and turning my blood to molten lust.

Even more exhilarating is Ethan’s response—a ragged indrawn breath, a tremor through his hardened form—signaling the effort of maintaining his restraint. As if this barely-there kiss is as devastating to his senses as a bullet. Yet still he manages to control his hunger…and I’m not sure what will happen when he unleashes it.

But I’m certain that I want to find out.

I nip his bottom lip, then gently tug. A growl rumbles up from his chest that makes me smile against his lips and rock forward—oh so teasingly—over the rigid length of his erection. His mouth opens on a quiet grunt and I flick my tongue past his teeth, a slick taste and retreat that sets off an explosion of need deep inside me.

I wondered about Ethan’s control? Oh god. I should have worried about my own.

Because it’s gone. Burnt to ashes by a single lick. I fist my hand in his thick hair, pulling his head back for a deeper kiss, hot and wet and greedy. Sheer pleasure follows, like rain after a wildfire that ought to soothe and cool, but instead every drop sizzles and steams until a fog of arousal clouds every thought and feeling, except for the ones that are filled by Ethan, his taste and his scent and his hardness and his heat.

But it’s not enough. No matter how searing and sweet. Because I asked him to hold back. And he is. For me.

So he’s kissing me back, but it’s not the kiss I need. Not the kiss I ran away from the first night, that made me long for something I didn’t have. The kiss that said I was everything to him.

But I wasn’t everything to him. It was just a scent. Something he couldn’t control. So I try to fill up the absence now with pleasure, because this is still Ethan. He’s still big and hard and when I grind against that steely length, my inner muscles clench in a deliciously carnal demand. And I’m so slippery that each roll of my hips needs to be harder, faster, chasing the friction that tightens everything inside me into a contracting spiral of ecstasy, that makes him growl and shake beneath me.

But it’s all empty pleasure. Because I’ve done this before. Used someone—or a toy—to drive my body toward orgasm. I bet Ethan has, too. And he’s kissing me like I could be anyone.

Because I asked him to. And I know—I know—his restraint is just another way of showing me how much I mean to him.

Anything you want, he said. But until it was gone, I didn’t truly know what I wanted. Or didn’t let myself accept it.

What I want is to feel as if I’m everything to him. I want to know his hunger, his craving, and know it’s just for me. I want to believe that I’m the only woman in the world for him.

The same way he’s becoming the only man for me.

My chest heaving with my ragged breaths, I lift my head. He’s just as aroused as I am, his skin flushed and gaze heavy-lidded. And my heart clenches painfully, because it’s right there. What I was searching for in his kiss. It’s in the way he’s looking up at me with those burning amber eyes.

Looking at me like that, but not touching me like that. Because my words had been as effective as the rings, preventing him from unleashing all the fire inside.

I need that fire. Even if it doesn’t last forever, even if it’s really just because of my scent…for a short time, at least, I’ll have everything I’ve wanted.

Maybe he sees it. Maybe I’m looking at him now the same way he looks at me, because his breath stops and his body stills.

“Makena?”

“Hey,” I reply awkwardly, because all this realization is still frightening and new, as if I’ve been introduced to a part of myself that was hidden before. My trembling fingertips trace his bottom lip, the firm curve glistening from our kiss. “So…I don’t need you to hold back anymore.”

I don’t know what I expected. Okay, no, that’s a lie—I know exactly what I expected. That Ethan’s cock would do that Hulk impression through his zipper, that he’d fill up my pussy and fuck me as if the world was ending tomorrow. Or that he’d flip me over facedown on the swing and, oh god, mount me from behind, and stake his claim with me on my knees and his cock so deep inside me.

Just imagining it has me squirming against him. Because maybe it’s not just what I expected, but also hoped for.

Yet he doesn’t do either of those things. Instead…instead…

He just continues what we were doing before. His callused palm cups my nape and gently pulls me back down into a kiss. With his other hand, he takes my ass in a firm grip and begins urging me forward and back, rocking against him. All the same.

Yet so completely different. How can it be? Yet it is. Hot and sweet and a little slower now, but everything I needed is suddenly here. A knot forms in my throat and I close my eyes against the burning sting of emotion.

This is more than a continuation of a kiss. It’s a continuation of everything that came before—the simple joy of being with him, conversing on a porch swing, the back and forth of debate and learning who he is. That was everything I wanted, too. And this is the same. Except instead of talking, now the touching and kissing provide that simple joy and pleasure, because I’m here with him. Two minutes ago when I was grinding over his erection, he could have been anyone. But now, this feeling could only be with him. This need could only be us.

And it’s so much hotter. So much more desperate. Not just determined to chase my pleasure or to get him there, too, but completely overwhelmed by the need tearing through me, desperate to be closer to him, to lose myself with him. I whimper low in my throat, my pussy clenching with every rocking grind against my clit. His big hands knead my ass and move me over his rigid thickness, rougher now, as if he knows that I’m going under.

“I got you, Makena,” he growls softly against my lips.

And he does. I bury my face against his neck to muffle my cry when his hand pushes into my shorts. When he finds me slippery and hot, his groan is a thick reverberation against my cheek.

I begin shaking as his thumb slicks over my clit, panting against the corded tendons of his neck, flicking my tongue to taste the salty sweat dampening his skin.

As if sparked by the wet touch of my tongue, Ethan harshly demands, “Give me your mouth again. I need to be tasting you.”

I need the same. But there’s almost no sweetness or finesse left in this kiss. Just hot and wet, our mouths open together and panting against each other’s lips, as his thumb strokes and slides. Then I’m almost there, right there, and as the orgasm breaks through Ethan devours my mouth, muffling my ragged cries. Helplessly I writhe against him, coming so hard, and his thumb doesn’t stop, just relentlessly circles my slippery clit until it’s too much. I break away from his mouth and catch his wrist, stopping that gloriously wicked caress over my oversensitive clit.

For a moment we stay there, motionless, with his hand down my shorts and our breaths shuddering together. Then a harder shiver wracks my body when he withdraws his hand, his fingers slipping through my wetness, his retreating thumb the barest brush of rough skin over my swollen clit.

And I should have known he would bring those glistening fingers to his mouth. His hunger is a fierce golden burn as he licks them clean. I watch, entranced, my inner walls tightening again with every slide of his tongue.

He’s still hard beneath me—and suddenly my mouth is watering for a taste.

“Ethan,” I say huskily, and reach down to clasp that hard length encased by denim. “I know that I said one step at a time. But how do you feel about taking another step tonight?”

I can’t imagine he’ll say no. But I’m a little surprised that he doesn’t immediately say yes, either.

Eyes narrowing, he silently regards me with that steady gaze. “You sure?”

“That I want you to come as hard as I just did? Yes.”

He sucks the remaining wetness from the tip of his thumb as he contemplates me for another second, then nods. “All right.”

Yes. Hot anticipation spears through me and I slide back along his thighs, intending to slip down off the swing and kneel on the porch.

Instead hard hands grab my hips, flip me around so that I’m sitting on the swing again, with Ethan looming over me. But before I can hold him there, he draws back—so fast—and my heart stops in my chest as he drags my shorts and panties with him. My mind still spinning, I realize that he’s in the same position that I’d meant to be, kneeling on the porch between my legs.

Tossing my panties and shorts aside, he runs his hands back up the length of my legs, his gaze slipping downward from my face to my heaving chest. With a groan, he tells me, “It kills me how many beautiful parts of you that I’m about to neglect. But I’ll get to them all soon enough.”

Breathless, I try to sit up and only get dragged down until my ass is at the edge of the seat again. “Wait a sec—”

“You agreed to another step,” he growls roughly. “So this step is gonna be me eating up your sweet little cunt.”

Oh god. My brain seems to fizz out for a second. But only a second. Because this isn’t what we just agreed to. “But I wanted to—”

“Make me come? I guarantee you, Makena, letting me lick your pussy is gonna do it. Because I told you”—he puts my right foot up on his shoulder, opening my legs to his ravenous gaze—“I’m real hungry tonight.”

Letting him lick my pussy. As if it’s me giving him the same pleasure that a blow job would. Maybe even more pleasure, the way he’s looking at me.

But my hesitation must be striking warning bells in his head, because he suddenly asks gruffly, “Are you saying no? You don’t want it?”

“No,” I immediately protest then realize it wasn’t clear enough. “I want it.”

“All right,” he growls, and I gasp as that response is followed by a hot lick across my inner ankle. “But you’ve got to do one thing for me.”

Anything. I’m ready to agree to anything.

But I wait for him to add, “You gotta stay quiet when you come, because your uncle’s snoring upstairs with the window open and I don’t want to wake him. And because if I wasn’t kissing you earlier, I’m pretty damn sure you would have been screaming.”

I’m pretty damn sure he’s right. So I bite my bottom lip and nod, showing him that I’m prepared.

He grins and turns his head to place a soft kiss against my calf. Already working his way up with his mouth, but his hands are ahead, his fingers sliding up the length of my inner thighs.

My muscles quiver beneath his touch but I can’t look away from his face. At the sheer ecstasy etched into every rugged line. At the way his chest lifts on a deep breath and he closes his eyes.

They open again when I give a shaky laugh.

“Tell me,” he demands softly, but his voice is pure gravel.

Tell him why I laughed. “Usually guys act like they’re doing a favor when they go down. But you… It’s like I’m doing you a favor.”

“Seems to me, you are. You’re giving me a glimpse of heaven, Makena,” he says and licks a scorching path up the inside of my knee. “And a taste of it, too.”

I think the heaven is his mouth. His touch, sliding higher, the soft scrape of work-roughened hands and—

I glance down and my breath catches in my throat. “Ethan,” I whisper. “You have claws.”

“Because everything about you is so goddamn overwhelming.” The admission is a harsh rasp, and a tortured expression moves over his features. “The scent of you. The taste of you. The feel of you. And good Christ, the look of you. Then you say my fucking name in that sexy way and I just… I don’t have a lot of practice with this.”

With eating a girl out? That wasn’t the impression I got. “It’s okay if you’re a first-timer.”

I’ll just lower my expectations.

A growl rumbles from his chest. “I’m not a first-timer. But I don’t have any practice wanting like this.”

Oh. The warmth of that confession melts through me, joining the molten heat of my arousal. “Well, I don’t either,” I tell him and his gaze softens.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says quietly.

I don’t know if he means with his claws or some other way. And I don’t know if it’s true—eventually, his leaving might tear me in two—but I’m certain that, physically, he would never harm me.

“I believe you,” I tell him.

He nods slowly, watching my face as I watch those clawed fingers skim higher. So maybe he sees the reaction in me that I never could have expected—because those razored claws are dangerous, but not frightening. Not when I know he would never hurt me. So seeing them and feeling them against my skin adds a thrilling edge to the pleasure.

So does the glimpse of sharpened teeth as he kisses his way up my inner thigh, until his mouth hovers directly over my pussy.

I shake wildly, whimpering in desperate anticipation as his heated breath warms my passion-slicked flesh. His amber eyes gleam with hunger and his voice is hoarse with need as he reminds me, “You stay real quiet.”

Then he leans in.

15

ETHAN

I’M NOT A FIRST-TIMER. And a few weeks ago, I resented that some woman out there had turned me into a last-timer. Resented that I’d never want anyone else. All because of her scent.

Now I can’t believe that I wasted three years. That I went so long without knowing her taste. Without knowing the sight of her laid out before me, her pussy glistening while her kiss still lingers on my lips.

For three fucking years, I didn’t have the brains or the guts to imagine someone like Makena at the other end of that fragrance. That’s a long stretch of stupidity to make up for. But I’m getting started on that now.

Her sweet perfume fills me up as I lean in closer, her scent so pure here, her arousal concentrated and distilled. It’s absolutely intoxicating, what her fragrance does to me. This essence of her, making my head swim and messing with my skins. All that talk about being able to control myself has turned into shit. As if I can’t bear that she’s so vulnerable like this, even before me, so my instincts are raging to let loose her protector. Or as if I need her to see me at my strongest, so she’ll know that I’m worthy of what she’s giving me.

I’m not worthy. Not of this. And even as I’m battling against my hunger, trying to hold on to the bit of control I have left, she whispers huskily, “Ethan. Please,” while tilting her hips up.

And hunger wins.

With a soft growl, I take a long lick. And sweet fucking Christ—her scent is nothing but a faint echo of her taste. Her essence floods my tongue, her cunt so sultry with her arousal that I could feast for hours. And I might. Because I’ve never been as selfish or as greedy as I am now, taking another long slow lick from the entrance of her pussy to her clit.

Despite her promise to stay quiet, she makes noise. Fuck yes, she does. Deep in her throat, with her teeth digging into her bottom lip, but it doesn’t matter how much she muffles those sounds because I can hear them all, and they accompany the broad slick of my tongue through her succulent pussy lips, the soft flick against her engorged clit. The next noise she makes sounds like she’s hurting, but I know damn well she isn’t, because I keep licking away all those sweet pussy juices but her cunt stays sopping wet.

And it isn’t just her pussy that I’m hungry for. Not just her scent and her taste. It’s her, and the way she pants and squirms against my mouth. It’s her helpless moans when I suck on her hot little clit, and the frustrated cries that she stifles against her hand as I tease her tight entrance and lick up inside her.

I want everything Makena Laine has to give. Not just her cunt or her cum but her muffled screams, her rocking hips, the way she begins breathlessly chanting my name.

But these fucking claws, I can’t fill her up with my fingers the way her pussy is demanding—and filling her with my aching cock is a step too far tonight. Hungrily I kiss my way down to her tight entrance and begin fucking her with my tongue, strumming her clit with my thumb. All at once her thighs begin trembling and her back arches up, her heartbeat racing in a frantic rhythm. When she abruptly hauls her quilt off the seat and covers her face, biting down on the thick blanket, I push her over the edge with a hard thrust of my tongue.

And fuck, when she comes. Her cunt clamps down on my tongue, squeezing, even as her thighs crush my head in the sweetest prison I’ve ever known. She screams into that blanket, her body shaking, with my thumb working the slippery knot of her clit until she shoves at my hand.

The vise of her thighs releases, but I’m not going anywhere yet. The rush of wetness that came with her orgasm saturates her silken folds. I could spend all night lapping it all up.

But I don’t have all damn night. So when she finally uncovers her face, bringing that quilt down to her chest with the material still bunched in her fists, I reluctantly abandon her pussy and kiss my way up over her lower belly, until I hit the bottom of her shirt.

“Those hunters stopped somewhere near the Rudder place,” I tell her gruffly.

She blinks. Then blinks again. She’s still breathless when she replies, “Maybe hoping for easy pickings in his pasture.”

“Maybe. But I probably ought to go check it out.”

She nods distractedly, her eyes seeming a little dazed. “Okay.” Then I straighten up, still kneeling but no longer bending over her, and her gaze goes straight to the bulge of my erection. “You said—”

“And I’m about to take care of that right now.”

She tries to sit up. “Let me—”

“Just lie back there. This visual is about as perfect as it gets.” So damn perfect. Makena all disheveled and rumpled, half-naked with her long legs parted in a boneless sprawl. And her pussy on display, well-fucked by my mouth, still glistening and swollen.

I drag my T-shirt up over my head and toss it onto the seat beside her. Her gaze goes to my chest, then lower as my hands work at the fastening of my jeans. I know the moment when she works out exactly how our current positions align us at the perfect height to fuck, that my cock is at the same level as her exposed cunt, because that lustful scent blooms again, perfuming the air with her desire.

She gasps a little, then again as I drag my erection free. Wrapping my fingers around the heavy shaft, I try to ease the ache, but stroking my cock only makes it worse.

So does the way Makena stares, her full lips parted, and the way her tongue slips out to moisten the bottom one before she says, “You should have whipped that monster out the first day. I’d have fired you on the spot.”

“For real bad behavior?”

“Yes,” she says on a laugh, then catches her breath, going utterly still as I angle my cock and drag the thick head up through the wet seam of her cunt.

And fuck, the feel of her. My breath hisses through my teeth and I battle the need to push deep into that scalding wetness.

But that’s a step too far tonight. Even though she’s tilting her hips as if to invite me in.

“Ethan,” she moans my name in a way that’s half demand and half plea.

Christ help me. I can’t deny her anything. But I might have to. “You on the pill?”

Her gaze widens and locks with mine. She shakes her head.

This is the one time I won’t give her what she wants, then. Until I kill the fuckers who murdered my family, who are hunting the kin, I won’t risk a child of my own. Not when it’d paint a target on the baby’s—and Makena’s—back.

“I don’t have a condom,” I tell her hoarsely. “So you just lie still and let me do my thing.”

That draws a quick grin from her, one that disappears on a gasp and with Makena biting her lip and groaning deep in her throat as I push forward up through those slick lips, the full length of my cock riding over clit. I don’t stop until my balls meet the sweltering heat of her pussy, then the swing does the rest, gliding back before rocking her forward again, my cock stroking her clit all the way.

“Oh my god.” Panting, Makena arches her back into the next swing, her pussy wetting my dick like a long, hot lick. “This is your thing?”

“It is tonight.” Though I want a little more control, which I get by putting her heels up on my shoulders and gripping the edge of the seat.

She makes a soft, guttural noise when I push the swing back farther, then bring us back together with a wet slap of skin. But the way her gaze is locked on the sight of my cock, her eyes slightly glazed, it ain’t just the feel of this that’s getting to her.

It sure as hell isn’t all that’s getting to me. “You like the look of it, don’t you? And like knowing how deep I’ll be when I get into you.”

Her breath shudders, and she doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to. She’s watching my thick cock stroke up over her clit, my shaft glistening with her juices and the crown dripping a trail of pre-cum over her lower belly, and imagining how I’ll stretch her open and fill her up.

Because I’m imagining the same thing. With every wet, scalding stroke I’m imagining that tight cunt sucking at me, pulling at me. Then Makena licks her palm and reaches down and I’m surrounded by her touch, enfolded in the hot furrow of her pussy and her slick grip. And that’s the end of me. As if commanded by her hand, the orgasm whips through my cock like lightning. Hauling her forward until I’m balls-deep in that sultry grip, I throw back my head and clench my teeth against a howl of pleasure as my cum spurts across her flat stomach. And it’s fucking endless. Three years built up, with my hand the only release, yet a single touch of hers and I’m coming harder than I ever have.

It just about drains me. Drains me—and energizes me like I’ve never been before. I slump forward, my chest heaving, my hands braced beside her hips. She’s grinning at me as if she’s feeling the same thing, so I laugh and kiss the hell out of her.

A distant whoop and echo of laughter pulls me out of it. Nothing I’ve heard yet suggests that the men at Rudder’s place are anything more than a couple of drunk locals—and I haven’t heard anything that makes me think they’ve been messing with the herd—but licking Makena’s pussy isn’t the only reason I’m here on her ranch. No matter how delicious a reason that is.

I pull back, use my T-shirt to wipe the cum from her belly, then hand her the shorts and panties I stripped from her. She gets her panties on before seeming to give up, laying back against the cushions again, looking as satisfied as a cat who got her paws into all kinds of cream.

Her lazy smile widens as I shuck my jeans. “I don’t know why I find it so funny that you’re running around out there naked.”

“Am I naked if I’m covered in fur?”

“Yes,” she says instantly, then tilts her head as if reconsidering. “Maybe? Does your dick hang out?”

Not always. But considering it’s still erect, I figure she can determine her own definition of naked.

Hunching over so I won’t bang my head on the porch roof, I transform into my warrior’s skin. Surprise widens her eyes when I suddenly change, then her eyes go even wider when her gaze drops between my legs.

Instantly she clamps her thighs tight together, begins shaking her head. “Nope. Nuh-uh. Holy Jesus.”

I huff out a laugh.

“And I called it a monster before?” She shakes her head again. “That is fucking terrifying.”

But not all terrifying. Not if I’m reading her scent right. Slowly I move closer, and her breath shudders.

“It would never work.”

It’s not meant to work. This is my warrior’s skin, not my mating skin. But that doesn’t mean I can’t use this form to tease her a bit.

Growling softly, I loom closer—and she isn’t a bit scared. Not even when I crouch and sniff at her neck, my fangs skimming her vulnerable throat. She trembles as I lick there, but it’s not in fear.

“Ethan,” she says breathlessly, almost incredulously, as if disbelieving her own response to this.

I nuzzle lower, inhaling the mix of our scents on her soft belly—the essence of Makena and my cum. Then lower, watching her face as I do. She stares back at me, enraptured, with her breath shaking through her parted lips.

“This is such bad behavior,” she whispers.

Yeah, it is. So is nudging her thighs apart, exposing the damp cotton protecting her pussy—and taking a rough lick, explicitly demonstrating the length and strength of this tongue. Makena gives a startled little yelp, then swiftly covers her mouth, staring at me with arousal exploding through her scent.

I grin and ease back.

“You’re so fired,” she hisses.

It’s about damn time.

MAKENA’S PASTURE stretches a good distance, bending with the river. Instead of taking that rounded route, I head straight over the hills that form the belly in the big U-shape that her property makes. Farther on, a little stream runs down the hillside to the river, and divides her land from Rudder’s old place. I follow that stream, slipping into the copse of leafy oak trees and low-lying shrubs that grow heavy where the bottom of the hill meets the fields. From there it’s easy to scope out the men who parked themselves in Rudder’s old pasture, about a stone’s throw away from the stream.

Like I figured, the three men are drunk as hell, sitting in the back of a pickup that’s been jacked up on giant tires. A spotlight’s mounted on the rollbar over the back of the cab, and two of them are cradling rifles as close as they are holding their bottles of beer.

Mixing guns and liquor tells me they’re dumb as shit, but my ears tell me there aren’t any elk or deer within shooting distance—and the herd is far enough away that no matter how wasted the dumbshits get, Makena’s cows are likely safe. My nose tells me that each one of them has a scent, so none of them took a sledgehammer to her herd a week ago.

Hell. With the flavor of Makena’s pussy on my tongue, I’m in a fine and generous mood. Leaving them here to their stupid good time and heading back to have another taste sounds like the best idea I’ve ever had. Staying to watch some asshole take a piss is far less appealing. At least, that’s what I figure one of them is doing when he begins climbing down from the truck bed.

Until he reaches in to grab a pickaxe and a bucket. Then I’m curious enough to stay a bit longer.

Flashlight in hand, he starts heading my way. He’s not as drunk as the others—which isn’t saying much. He’s maybe in his mid-twenties, with the same clean-cut country boy look that half the men in Fortune City sport on church day—polished cowboy boots, tight Wranglers belted with a big buckle, and a button down Western shirt.

The other two watch him make his way to the stream, erupting into laughter when he jumps over and stumbles the landing on the opposite bank, the beam of his flashlight arcing wildly.

He mutters a ‘fuck you’ that likely I’m the only one who heard. Then one of his buddies yells out, “Don’t get eaten by the bears!” and this time his reply is loud enough for everyone.

“Fuck off with that joking shit! They were nice people. Sponsored me all the way through Little League.”

Makena’s parents, I’m guessing. Unless someone else got eaten by bears around here.

“Is that why you fucked over their daughter?” his friend calls out.

“Yeah,” the other adds with a laugh, turning around the baseball cap he’s wearing, so the bill sticks out the back. “Pulling out their fences sure isn’t a nice way to repay them.”

Cleancut’s answer is another mumble. “Because nice doesn’t pay the bills any better than a state championship does.” At the same time the friend with the backwards hat calls out, “Though it sure was fun, wasn’t it?”

Well. There goes my fine fucking mood. I look at that truck, at the cable winch mounted at the front end, and it’s easy to imagine them out here on another night, drunk as hell and having a great time yanking out Makena’s fence posts.

Tonight, though…the only one who’s about to have a good time is me.

“Hold up.” A clatter comes from the back of the truck, the sound of a drunk dumbshit trying to move quick. “Get that light over there by the trees. I just saw something.”

That spotlight floods the spot where I just was, then searches slowly back through the underbrush. Concealed by the dark, I’m already racing through the trees, angling up the hill and around a pile of boulders that look to have settled at the bottom of the incline ages ago—and where Cleancut seems to be headed. I’ll cut him off and give him reason to head the other direction real fucking fast.

I leap over a boulder and sickness explodes in my gut, shooting up into my throat. Dizziness spins through my head and I hit the rock in a bellyflop instead of landing on my feet, then tumble in an avalanche of gravel until I crash to a stop in a crevice between two big boulders.

What the blazing hell?

“Over here!” This time it’s Cleancut yelling. The beam of a flashlight arcs across the rocky slope above me, then the spotlight washes it all bright. With all eight furry feet of me crunched up between these boulders like some stupid fuck, I’m not in danger of being spotted. Just in danger of dying from embarrassment.

“Maybe you scared it away!” One of the others yells.

I’m not scared. Just real confused. Though maybe Cleancut’s pickaxe should have given me a clue. I’m likely close to the silver mine on Makena’s land. Maybe too close to it.

Though I’m feeling all right now. Moving gingerly—not because I’m still disoriented but because I don’t want to make much more noise yet—I stay low and take a look beyond the boulder I tried to jump.

The world wobbles unsteadily. Puke crawls up from my stomach again and I pull back, but not before getting a look at the mine’s entrance. Makena said that Jonas had sealed it up, but it sure as hell looks open to me. A frame made of thick wooden posts surrounds the entrance. A heavy door once filled that frame, but now that door is twisted on its iron hinges and hanging open a couple of inches, giving me a glimpse of the hole dug into the side of the hill—about fifteen feet away.

Clearly I’m not getting any closer than that. But that’s all right. I don’t know if Cleancut is short on cash and hoping to prospect himself some silver, or if he somehow knows there’s something special about this mine—but he’s not getting any closer to it, either.

I let loose a rumbling growl. Cleancut’s approaching footsteps stop dead. He’s holding his breath as his flashlight plays over the boulders.

He won’t find me. I’m big as fuck but also real good at staying out of sight when I want to. And tonight, I need to. I can’t risk anyone claiming they saw a werewolf and maybe bring that organization of hunters to Makena’s home. But there’s plenty else I can do to make them real reluctant to ever come to her ranch again.

Moving silently, I give the mine a wide berth and skirt up around the slope, until I reach the boulders on the other side of the stream.

There I let him hear me again—a loud and vicious snarl. Cleancut spins around, that flashlight whipping back and forth, his breathing sharp and fast. He raises the pickaxe over his shoulder, as if getting ready to swing it like a bat.

“Hey!” he shouts to the others. “Get that light over here!”

They’d gone back to drinking and dicking around instead of watching him, so it takes a second before they get that light on him. By then I’m already down in Rudder’s field, making a wide circle around the truck while they all stare in the other direction.

Ballcap calls out, “What is it?”

“There’s something out here,” Cleancut calls back. “Maybe two of them.”

They all go quiet, listening. Crouched in the grass, I wait.

Until the third one scoffs. “It’s gone now, you pussy!”

“You just keep that light on me.” Cleancut starts toward the mine again.

“Aww, you scared of the dark? You just—”

Running full speed, I slam into the side of the truck like a freight train. Jacked up on those big tires, it starts tipping—and I give it another shove to help it over.

Screaming and swearing, Ballcap bails from the bed, jumping clear and landing in the field. The other clings to the rollbar, near the spotlight that traces the arc of the falling vehicle as it crashes onto its side in an screech of metal and shattering glass. That light flares out. Everything’s still bright enough for me, but I’m guessing they can barely see shit by the faint light of the quarter moon and the stars—or by Clearcut’s single flashlight beam, which doesn’t even illuminate the distance between him and the tipped-over truck.

From up by the mine comes the sound of a clatter as Cleancut drops his bucket. Wielding that pickaxe, the fucker comes racing back.

“What was it?” he shouts as he leaps over the stream. “What the fuck happened to my truck?”

The others are doing too much of their own shouting and hollering to answer—until I growl again and they all go dead quiet.

Then a whisper is followed by the sound of a rifle’s bolt-action loading a cartridge into the chamber. “It’s around the other side. You get that flashlight ready.”

They’re just making this too easy.

Lightly as I can, I leap up onto the topside of that tipped-over truck and crouch there. They come around the tail end, rifles at ready, with Cleancut holding the flashlight.

I growl and he swings the beam my way. Ballcap follows with a scream, whipping his rifle around, reflexively jerking the trigger. I drop down onto the other side of the truck and both the light and the bullet miss me by a mile, but the crack of that shot echoes off the hills on either side of the field.

I give the truck a push in their direction. Not far, only about ten feet, just enough to scare them a bit more. Another crack of a rifle and the thunk of lead against metal tells me it must have at least scared one.

“You fucking idiot!” Cleancut yells. “You shot my goddamn truck!”

“It was moving!”

I grin and get ready to push it a hell of a lot farther. Then, in the distance, Makena’s engine starts up. Shit. No doubt she heard the gunshots and is heading this direction to make sure I’m okay. But as drunk and trigger-happy as they are, she’ll be the one in danger if these fuckers shoot at her.

So I’ll take one risk tonight, then, because I’m not leaving these dumbshits out here with their guns. Silently I round the front of the truck—and toss their cooler way out into the field.

It crashes to the ground, glass bottles and cubed ice exploding across the grass like a sparkling glitter bomb. They all spin in that direction, their sweat smelling as sour as the piss beer they’ve been drinking. Fast and quiet, I come up behind them. I smash the flashlight out of Clearcut’s hand first, so they don’t see anything but a dark hulking shadow ripping the rifles out of their grip, my growls drowned out by their screams.

They’re still screaming as I head back to Makena’s property, dropping those rifles in the water when I jump over the stream. I hightail it across the pasture. Makena’s truck is flying down the road, but she’s not the only one coming. In the passenger seat, her uncle’s loading a shotgun. Thelma and Alf sit between them, not sure what the hell is going on but eager to get their little doggie teeth into something, too.

I reach the road just as she starts rounding the bend. The second her high beams touch on me, she screams and slams the brakes, skidding to a stop about two yards from where I’m crouching on the asphalt. The stink of burned rubber fills the air, then is overwhelmed by the sweet scent of Makena as she throws open her door and races toward me. “Are you okay? We heard someone shooting!”

The dogs are right on her heels, prancing and tongues lolling, sure this is some fun we’re having. They lick my hands and sniff my crotch, because this is the first time they’ve come across me without my clothes covering up everything that’s most interesting to smell. I chuff out a laugh and give them a few scratches behind their ears, then realize Jonas is real damn quiet. And that he hasn’t seen me like this before, either.

The older man stands beside the truck, staring at me with a face as blank as a face can get. I rise up out of my crouch, towering over Makena, who’s still looking at me closely in the headlights as if trying to figure out if I’ve been shot.

Jonas’s wiry throat works as he swallows hard, then he gives a short nod. “Well…that’s really something.”

Makena goes still. Her gaze darts down between my legs. A relieved breath bursts from her a second later—probably because everything’s well hidden now, sheathed and concealed by fur. As it should be in this form. A warrior who’s running around with an exposed dick is a warrior who’s leaving a sensitive part of himself vulnerable.

Though if she keeps peeking in that direction, I can’t guarantee it’ll all stay hidden.

I grin down at her. She notices and hastily averts her eyes, cheeks darkening with a blush.

“I brought your clothes,” she says. “Your jeans and, uh, your shirt.”

My cum-stained shirt. Well, I ain’t picky. Especially as it’ll smell like her pussy, too.

She heads back toward the truck. “Kyle should be on his way.”

Just as well, considering what I’ve got to tell her. So I’d better change before he gets here.

I better change, anyway. I can’t tell her anything in this skin.

I follow her, waiting until I’m out of the path of the headlights before transforming. Not because I’m modest, but because I figure Jonas would rather not get an eyeful of my dick.

Makena sure takes an eyeful as she hands over my jeans, though the way the dogs try to get another sniff of my bare ass before I cover it up sucks the sexy out of the whole process. She’s giggling behind her hand when she passes me the shirt. Before the shooting started, she must have rinsed the stain out of the fabric. Now there’s just a big wet patch that clings to my stomach when I pull it on.

Jonas seems to have recovered now. “Should we call Kyle, tell him it’s nothing?”

“We might as well wait for him here. They aren’t going far.” I look to Makena, who’s still giggling at the dogs. “They’re the same assholes who tore up your fences.”

Her giggles stop. “Who?”

“I didn’t hear a name. But one of them owns a Ford pickup with a lift kit and fifty-four-inch tires, and with a cable winch on the front end.”

Disbelief fills her expression. “A red pickup?”

I’ve got no idea. I shrug and tell her, “I know it wasn’t yellow or blue. He said your family used to sponsor him in Little League.”

That disbelief deepens, joined now by hurt. “Charlie Langerman?”

I can’t answer that, either. “There were two others with him. About the same age.”

“If it’s Charlie, the others are probably Clint and Travis.” She glances at Jonas, as if looking for confirmation. But he only shakes his head, his face stony, and I remember the bartender saying that Jonas mostly keeps to himself and doesn’t go into town much.

But Makena does. Quietly I ask her, “Is this Charlie a friend of yours?”

“Not a close friend, but…” She trails off and her hurt deepens, which tells me that he was apparently friendly enough that this feels like a betrayal.

“Did they all have scents?” Jonas asks, clearly wondering if that betrayal might be even worse.

“They did.”

She seems to take comfort in knowing they didn’t slaughter her cattle, at least. “So what were they doing? Trying to pull down the fences again?”

“No. It looked like Charlie intended to go prospecting in your silver mine.”

A baffled frown draws her eyebrows together. “What?”

“He had a pickaxe and a bucket with him, and he was heading over toward it.”

Jonas gives a rusty laugh. “Did he have a stick of dynamite, so he could get that door open?”

“It was already open.”

That surprises them both. They exchange a stunned glance. Then Makena asks him, “When’s the last time you had a look?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks or so. After the fences.”

“What about after the cattle were slaughtered?”

Jonas shakes his head. “I didn’t go and see if anyone tried to mess with it.”

“What about you?” I ask Makena.

“I don’t go into that corner of the property at all,” she says, and though her voice is even, dread fills her scent—along with a whiff of the same fear that all but drowned her while she suffered her panic attack earlier. She quickly tamps it down. “So it could have been opened any time in the past few weeks.”

Or maybe on the same night that her cattle were slaughtered. Because it might take a stick of dynamite to open that mine, but someone who could swing a sledgehammer that hard wouldn’t need explosives. Though if he is one of the kin, once he got that door open, he likely got real sick and wouldn’t have been able to hang around.

All this time, we’d been thinking that attack was one of the bearkin out for revenge on Makena’s family or Jonas. If his aim had been the mine all along, maybe being thwarted like that pissed off him bad enough to take out his anger on the nearest living things—a bunch of cattle. It seemed strange as fuck that it might have been one of the kin, but he didn’t use teeth and claws. If he was reeling from opening that mine and being exposed to the poisoned silver, though, he might not have been able to transform. Just like I can’t in the minute or so after touching that silver.

That’s a whole lot of ‘maybe,’ though. Especially when the explanation might be a lot simpler. “Someone paid him to pull out those fences. Maybe he got paid for this, too.”

Makena’s gaze sharpens. “Who paid him?”

“He didn’t say. But you’re thinking that development company, yeah?”

Her nod confirms that.

“Well,” I tell her, “this might just be more of the same, then. They’ve got those mines going on their property, so maybe they wanted to know if your mine had something to offer, too. I figure that might be why they’ve been going after your property so hard. Charlie might have been supposed to get samples or some shit.”

Makena’s staring at me like what I just said was a whole lot more astounding than some company getting greedy over silver or whatever other mineral they’re going after. “Did you say they’ve opened up the mines over there? And they’re mining in them?”

“Yep. Doing all kinds of blasting, and hauling loads of rock out of ‘em.”

“And it’s not just part of the construction?”

“Not unless they’re also using cyanide to put up their hotels. But as far as I know, it’s mostly good for processing silver ore—and that shit’s got a pretty distinctive smell.”

Still staring at me, Makena laughs in delight, clutching her hands in front of her chest like I just gave her a present. In the next second, she launches herself at me. I catch her up in my arms, not understanding but also not complaining when she kisses me hard, then pulls back to grin and proclaim, “This is the best day ever.”

Then she kisses me again. And just a little while ago, she fired me.

So, yeah. It’s a damn good day.

16

MAKENA

THE NIGHT TURNS into a long one after Kyle shows up. By then we’ve figured out our story—that Ethan had been up on the hill watching over the herd, saw Charlie and the others drive onto Rudder’s old field, and got close enough to hear them say something about being paid to rip out the fences. Immediately Ethan headed back home to tell me and Jonas what he’d overheard, and he was halfway there when he heard the gunfire. Ethan will say he believed they were shooting at an elk or something, because according to the new timeline, he wouldn’t know what really happened.

I hate lying to Kyle. Hate it. All of my part is true—I heard the gunfire, knew Ethan was out there, so I woke up Jonas and we headed in that direction—but we’re hiding so much from Kyle that I feel like shit the entire time.

But what else do I say? That Ethan’s a werewolf? Even if it didn’t sound crazy, exposing Ethan’s secret isn’t my decision to make.

At least I don’t have to hide my astonishment when we follow Kyle up to the site. Because Ethan told us that they’d shot at him, and that Charlie and his friends weren’t going anywhere. But he hadn’t said anything about what he’d done.

And holy shit. I knew Ethan was strong. Really strong. I had no idea how strong. Simply trying to comprehend a man who can toss a truck around…that takes a minute.

Taking in the scene, it’s clear Kyle assumes this had nothing to do with a werewolf, though, and everything to do with a couple of drunken assholes driving a top-heavy vehicle. Take any corner too fast, it’ll tip. And the tire marks in the field showed they must have been tearing it up pretty good even before Ethan came along.

No surprise, Kyle’s skeptical when they claim a bear attacked them. Also no surprise, they clam up when he floats the suggestion that they were out here before today, tearing out my fences.

The only surprise comes after he’s got them locked up in the back of his patrol vehicle. Before he takes off, Kyle says quietly to me, “Charlie always had a hell of a swing, didn’t he?”

With a baseball bat. If Fortune City has a homegrown celebrity, that celebrity would be Charlie. Just about single-handedly, he pitched and batted the high school team to a state championship—the only state championship ever won by a Fortune City team. Then he was recruited into the minor leagues, and it was as if he’d been anointed from on high. An injury forced him out after one season but his legend still lives on amongst the townspeople.

He wasn’t in the same grade as Kyle and me, but a few years behind. But he’s someone I’ve always known, before and after his stint at professional ball.

And I would never have thought he might be capable of chasing down and slaughtering two dozen cows. I still don’t think so. Obviously I misjudged him—because I didn’t think he’d be responsible for destroying my fences, either—but if he was paid, I can kind of understand it. People down on their luck sometimes do stupid shit for money.

But fences are one thing. And it’s a hell of a jump from stupid to psychopath. Whoever killed my cows seems to be a lot closer to the latter.

And Charlie might have a good swing, but I don’t think his—or any human’s—swing could ever be that good. According to Ethan, that person also doesn’t have a scent, but Charlie does. That’s not something I can explain to Kyle, though.

Still, wondering and worrying keep me awake the short hour and a half that I manage to snatch before my alarm goes off.

Jonas has a coffee ready for me in the kitchen. “Going to be a long day,” he says.

“Yeah, it is.” I accept the caffeine and pour a milk for Ethan. “But a good one.”

Maybe better than I already hope, if Charlie confesses that MDC paid him to rip out my fences. But even if he doesn’t, someone at MDC is about to have a really bad day.

I can’t fucking wait.

Stalking silently out of the dark, Ethan meets me on my way to the barn. I give him the milk and he hauls me in for a kiss, until every part of me that isn’t already awake has poked out its head to say good morning.

“I got your pictures,” he tells me when we come up for air.

Because he hasn’t gotten any sleep yet, either. Instead he was running a covert mission over to MDC’s construction site, gathering evidence. Last night, Ethan had no idea what he’d given us with that casual mention of their mining activities. Why would he? Locally, the topic of MDC’s application for a mining permit has under fierce debate for the past two years, but no one outside the county would have had any reason to pay attention—or to know that the state regulation board recently denied the company’s application, due to environmental concerns and the site’s proximity to the river. Yet MDC went ahead with their mining operation anyway.

Their illegal mining operation.

Yes, today is going to be a very good day.

We continue toward the barn, and Ethan adds, “I also stole a case of dynamite.”

I choke on my coffee. “What?”

“In case you want to blow up the entrance to your own mine.”

That…might be a good idea. “Maybe,” I say slowly, considering it. “We could at least prevent any more silver from ever coming out of there.”

“That was my thinking.”

Because it’s a matter of life or death to him. I want the same thing—the mine closed and no more of that silver in circulation. But there is still some out there, in the hands of the hunters. And perhaps there’s even more lying in jewelry boxes around the world, its magical properties undiscovered. So closing the mine would only solve part of the problem.

Maybe there’s a way to completely solve it.

“We’ll blow it up if we have to,” I tell him. “But let’s hold off a few days, and ask my uncle if he can search the mine first. Because my father believed that if a source of magic was destroyed—a source like Gleipnir—then the effect it had on anything else would vanish, too.” I hold up my hand, wriggling my beringed fingers. “So it would make this silver just like any other silver. And that would be a much better outcome than just closing it up.”

“Yeah, it would. Sounds like a plan, then.”

I just hope it’s a plan that works. The thought of Ethan chasing an organization of werewolf hunters would terrify me less if I also know they can’t easily kill him.

But it would only terrify me a little less. I wish he never had to leave.

That’s not up to me, though. So while he’s here, I’ll enjoy every moment with him that I can. Even these everyday, simple moments that we spend out in the barn. Especially these everyday, simple moments. Because they’re the ones that would fill my life if he stayed.

Now that he’s been helping me for a week, we have the morning chores down to a science—which means he handles almost everything while I tackle the task that takes the longest time: milking the cow. He probably would have tried taking that off my hands, too, if Annabelle wasn’t still wary around him. But overall, chores take about half the time they used to—and that’s only because the milking can’t be rushed. So Ethan finishes up his part before I’m through, then settles in to watch me from a distance that doesn’t make Annabelle too restless.

“Normally,” he tells me in that low, gravelly rumble of his, “I wouldn’t be caught dead sitting on my ass in a barn. There’s always something to do. But in this barn, Makena… There’s just nothing to do but sit here and drive myself crazy watching a fine, sexy woman use her lubricated hands to procure sustenance for her family table.” So he does, finishing his milk while I squirt more into a pail, my cheeks suffused with soft heat and my heart filled with pride.

Because in the past thirty years, my family has put in a lot of effort into making everything on this ranch as modern as we can afford. The first day, Ethan remarked on how efficient everything was in the barn, and praised the layout, saying it was one of the best he’d seen. And I would hope it is. Surely it’s not the biggest he’s seen, but the building replaced the drafty fire hazard that came with the property, and was one of the first expensive investments my family made. And we all worked on the structure—my parents, Jonas, me—and did the majority of the work ourselves. I was only eight years old when the barn went up, but I remember the sheer satisfaction of pounding in the nails, of being allowed to help with everything from the plumbing to the painting. And in twenty years, replacing the roof shingles was the only major repair it’s needed—which Ethan did in record time.

With Ethan here, everything that can be done more quickly is. This week, that speed meant we returned to the kitchen earlier, ate breakfast earlier. Not today, though. In the dairy room, he strains the milk while I wash the Bag Balm from my hands. And after everything is rinsed and drained… Well.

I glance at Ethan. He’s already watching me, and as if my look is the unsnapping of a leash, in the next second he’s got me backed against the wall—where I try to kiss him but he uses all that height and strength to keep me from reaching his mouth.

“Dammit, Ethan!” We don’t have a lot of time.

But he certainly takes his, tilting my chin up and lowering his head. His thumb brushes over my lips. “You gonna be in Boise most of the day?”

“Yes,” I tell him breathily. He’s got me pinned against the wall with his big body—and, oh my god, everything about him is so big. His thick erection presses into my belly, and even looking up into his eyes, I can hardly picture anything but that massive length stroking between my legs like it did last night. “Jonas is going with me to the sheriff’s this morning, and Carrie says she expects the rest will take all day.”

A six-hour drive in both directions, plus however much time it takes to talk to whoever we need to talk to.

With his gaze on my lips, he tilts his head, as if judging the best angle for a kiss. “Leave me a list of what needs done around here today, then. I’ll take care of it.”

“But I fired you,” I remind him, only just now thinking of it with a quivering uncertainty in my belly. Because I’d forgotten about doing that, kind of. Not about taking the next step with him. Despite everything else that happened last night, what passed between Ethan and me on my porch has barely left my head.

The actual firing part, though? I meant it. Not because he did anything wrong, but because he was right. He’s bossy. Even right now, he’s pushing me around in my own barn. I’m more than happy to let him. But if we also try to have an employee/employer relationship? That can’t function like this. An employee shouldn’t sit and ogle his boss while she milks a cow. And he sure as hell shouldn’t have his boss up against a wall, desperate to ride his cock.

But…I can’t afford to fire him. We need help around the ranch.

Yet it’s not right to let him work for free, either.

His eyes narrow. “Are you regretting that now?”

I don’t know how to answer that. Except as truthfully as I can. Because I’m worried.

But I don’t regret it. “No.”

Slowly he nods, his amber eyes gleaming. “Seems to me that if you had a man living in your house—or bunkhouse—and this man had the privilege of your bed, that might make him something like a boyfriend. Or a husband. Someone like that, you wouldn’t fret over the work he did around the ranch and whether you were paying him.”

My heart catches in my throat, where yearning squeezes everything into a painful lump. “That’s…a really big step.”

“But it’s a step that I’d sure like to take,” he says gruffly. “And after I have you good and hard tonight, Makena, you’ll want to take it, too.”

Tonight. My breath shudders, tension and anticipation rippling through me on a tightening wave. Ethan goes still, eyes closing, his chest lifting on a deep inhalation.

My fingers tighten on his shoulders. “Ethan?”

His eyes are blazing when they open. “You smell so goddamn good,” he rasps, and I glimpse the edges of his sharpened teeth. “So here’s what’s going to happen. We’re both about to get something we need. I’m going to give you something to get you through your long day.”

On a rumbling growl, he sinks to his knees, dragging down my shorts along the way, his claws skimming the lengths of my thighs. Chill air prickles my bare skin and tells me how wet I am.

And I’m drenched. That must be what he scented. Now he can see up close exactly what he does to me.

Ethan growls again, and looks up at me in that way he has. The way that makes me want to take all the steps.

I push my trembling fingers into his dark hair. “And what are you getting?”

“Breakfast,” he says, hungrily parting me with his thumbs, exposing my aching clit. “Enough to hold me until dinner.”

Enough to hold him—oh god. Because, Ethan.

He eats a lot.

DESPITE THREE ORGASMS and a brisk shower, I still feel hot and slick and needy when Jonas parks in front of the county building an hour later. But I doubt it’s just the after-effects of Ethan’s breakfast. Instead it’s because I can’t stop thinking about tonight.

But tonight’s a long way off. And I’ve got a lot of important shit to do today. So I need to get my head in the game instead of thinking about how incredible Ethan’s long, thick cock will feel inside me.

So deep inside me.

Oh god, I’m a mess. Though it probably doesn’t show. I’m wearing what I call my banking clothes—though usually when I stop at the bank, I’m just in my regular jeans and boots. A few times a year, though, the financial side of the business requires me to dress up a bit. But only a bit. No one would call my black blazer and pants fancy. My shoes are a different story, and are as cute as hell. I don’t often get to wear heels so putting on my banking clothes gives me a good excuse. And I like the way they make me really, really tall.

I stride into the county building feeling like an Amazon, ready to take down all the bad motherfuckers in the world. Kyle’s in his office behind a closed door, so I cool my cute heels in the sheriff’s department’s tiny waiting area and chat with April, who’s at the front desk. Jonas occupies himself with a People magazine that I’m not sure if he’s really reading or if he’s simply holding it as a pre-emptive shield, in case someone else comes in and might want to start a conversation with him.

The door to Kyle’s office opens, and out walks the bad motherfucker that I most want to cut down—Luc Fauconnier, the head of MDC. But I didn’t expect to see him here. Because both Carrie and Kyle advised me not to say anything about the mines until we talk to the state’s land use department. We don’t want to tip off MDC before the inspectors can get into the site.

So I’ve got Fauconnier by the balls and am ready to crush them…but I can’t yet. Instead I just stare at him, wondering what the hell he’s doing here. Especially this early, because it’s not even seven o’clock in the morning.

Unless Charlie already confessed and claimed that MDC paid him?

God, I hope so. And that might be the reason why he’s here. Because accompanying Fauconnier is his lawyer, Bradley Williams, a condescending little weasel who’s been out to the ranch several times with ever-increasing offers to buy. He’s not a local man, and I get the feeling that every time he touches something in Fortune City, he’s desperate to run off and wash his hands. Nobody in town is ever sorry to see him go, either.

Fauconnier, though, he does all right here. Maybe it’s partly the money—and that he doesn’t look like he’s got money. His clothes are just clothes, and though they’re probably not straight off the rack at Walmart, nothing slick or fancy. He’s good at blending in with everyone, especially in his mannerisms. He can be easygoing and charming, and has a quick smile. It doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes, either. Carrie once commented that he looks like Tom Hiddleston’s bigger, older brother. Which I don’t really agree with, but I also couldn’t unsee it after she said it. Maybe there’s a slight similarity in shape of his narrow face and his peaked hairline…but once you get to his eyes, no. Just, no.

He might smile, he might laugh, but those eyes show no signs of life.

Though…they almost do now. Or maybe it’s just because the rest of his face freezes in the middle of the quick smile he began to give me. But his dead-eyed gaze has sharpened and focused beyond me—on my uncle, who’s tossing down the magazine and rising out of his chair.

Then, as if it was nothing more than a blip in his programming, he finishes that smile. “Miss Laine. Good morning!”

I offer a tight smile in return, but his attention is already on Jonas, who has come to stand beside me.

“And the uncle. Of course. You must be Jonas Laine.” Fauconnier holds out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before.”

“And now we’ve met, but it still isn’t much of a pleasure,” Jonas says, shaking the other man’s hand.

Fauconnier chuckles as if my uncle’s reply was a joke. Then he agrees, “Not under these circumstances, no. I understand you had a bit of trouble last night, and some wild claims were made by the three men who were involved.”

So he is here because of Charlie. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Mr. Fauconnier—the wild claims that a bear tipped over a truck, or the wild claims that you paid Charlie to destroy our fences?”

“Accusations that are completely false and that my client unequivocally denies.” The lawyer slimes his way in. “And I would caution you, Miss Laine, against making defamatory statements about my client or spreading these accusations.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “I’m not the one who got drunk and ran my fool mouth,” I snap at him. “And it’s not defamation if it’s true that your client paid him.”

“I assure you it’s not the truth, and they were simply drunken ramblings that were misunderstood,” Fauconnier says smoothly. “But we also seem to be having a misunderstanding, Miss Laine. I am not Brad’s only client or the one he’s speaking of now. He also represents Charles Langerman and the two men who accompanied him last night.”

The floor drops out from under my feet. “What?”

Fauconnier nods, looking almost sympathetic, as if he didn’t enjoy blindsiding me. “Charlie called him last night after he was arrested for trespassing. It seems that in his inebriated state, he’d forgotten to tell Sheriff McKinley that I’d given him permission to camp overnight on the Rudder property, then hunt there early in the morning. So if the only issue was that he consumed alcohol and fired a gun when faced with a deadly threat…well, those are no issues at all.”

“They should be released within the hour,” the lawyer finishes cheerily.

It’s bullshit. He’d given Charlie permission to be there? So much bullshit. But even as rage builds in my belly and fire leaps to my tongue, I feel Jonas’s hand on my shoulder.

Because Fauconnier might have won this one. But my hand is still clamped around his balls. He just doesn’t know it yet.

So I smile and tell him, “Charlie’s lucky to have found such a good friend in you.”

“Isn’t he, though?” Fauconnier checks his watch. “Forgive me, but I have to run. It was lovely seeing you again, Miss Laine. And to finally meet you, Mr. Laine. It has been…an enlightening encounter.”

So it has been. Because if I’d had any doubts about what Charlie had done, they’re gone now. So as soon as they leave and Kyle escorts Jonas and me into his office, I don’t hold back.

“What the hell, Kyle?” I explode.

He looks just as frustrated. “They lawyered up right away, Makena. There wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do. I hoped to go at them separately, talk to each one…” His jaw clenches. “Instead they’re walking out of here soon. I can’t hold them on shit.”

“What if I charge them with trespassing? Charlie went onto my property. Hell, he left evidence that he did. That bucket was still sitting there.”

But Kyle’s shaking his head. “He claims it threw it that direction while trying to scare away the bear, and that he never crossed the stream.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. I’m guessing that when Williams went in there and talked with them, he found out every damn thing they did, and they made up a story to cover every possible angle. And since we’re left with their word against your ranch hand’s…we’ve got nothing.”

I grit my teeth against a scream of frustration. Because we do have something. Just not here.

That seems to be where Kyle’s thoughts are heading, too. “Are you meeting up with Carrie soon?”

“Yeah. She should be here in a few minutes.” When Jonas will head back to the ranch and I’ll ride with her down to Boise. “So there’s no way to get him for those fences?”

Kyle offers a heavy sigh. “Well, I won’t stop trying. Clint is the weak link of that group, always getting into trouble one way or another. Next time he’s picked up for something, I could use that arrest as leverage to get him talking. So maybe it’ll just take a little time.”

Shit. But at least it’s something. I nod and glance at Jonas, to see if he has anything to add, but he just shakes his head.

As I rise to my feet, though, Kyle has more. “You tell Grimmson not to go using his fists and coercing a confession out of any of them. Because that might be tempting, but when the courts and the lawyers get involved, it’ll do more harm than good.”

Ethan wouldn’t do that, I almost reply. But…maybe he would.

So instead I say nothing and head outside. Out on the front steps, Jonas says, “I’ll tell him.”

I have to laugh. Because I wasn’t sure if Ethan would, but apparently my uncle is. Shielding my eyes against the early sun, I search for Carrie and spot her car coming down the street.

“You tell him, too,” Jonas surprises me by adding. “Just in case he doesn’t listen to me. You tell him not to get anywhere near those boys for the time being.”

My stomach tightens. He’s using that voice again. The one that reminds me he wasn’t always a rancher with a talent for training difficult horses. “Why?”

“I’ve met men like Fauconnier before,” he says. “Those men don’t like weak links—or loose ends that can talk at any time. And it’d be real convenient if one of those loose ends could be tied up by blaming a drifter with a history of getting into fights.”

I stare at him. Sure, I think Fauconnier’s a soulless asshole. But does Jonas really believe he’s capable of that? “You think Fauconnier would kill them to make sure they don’t talk?”

“That’s the impression I got, yeah.” Then he shrugs. “I could be wrong.”

“Are you?”

He shakes his head. “Maybe he’ll figure they won’t be worth the trouble. But I suspect he’s pissed off at Charlie. By calling in the lawyer, there’s a link between them now—and there’s no damn way Fauconnier would have wanted that. Most likely what happened is Charlie called him last night and said that if Fauconnier didn’t get him out, he’d tell the sheriff everything about what happened with our fences. And Charlie’s just full of himself enough that maybe he’ll try it again. ‘Give me a little cash, or I start talking.’ Thinking he’s real smart and that no one will dare touch him. If that happens, yeah. Either Charlie will end up in a foundation of a new hotel, or beaten to death and dumped on our land. And there’s Carrie, waiting for you.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I couldn’t miss her arrival, not when she rolled down her window and yelled ‘Road trip!’ But I’m still reeling, trying to take in everything else Jonas said. “I, uh…might be late getting back.”

“All right, then.” He gives me a little nudge toward Carrie’s car. “You go give those bastards hell.”

Like an Amazon. With MDC’s balls in my hand.

I take a deep breath, nod. And pray that the rest of this day doesn’t turn into the same shitshow that the past fifteen minutes did.

17

MAKENA

CARRIE DROPS me off at home just before eleven. We’re both exhausted, yet completely pumped—and probably high on junk food and caffeine. A shadowed form is waiting for me on the porch swing, and even though I know at a glance that it’s Jonas, my heart still gives a silly, hopeful leap that Ethan will be close by, too. Waiting for me.

Grinning, I trot up the porch stairs—carrying my cute shoes by their straps, because somewhere around four o’clock this afternoon, my feet remembered that I don’t wear heels very often and started screaming. The dogs heave themselves up from the boards near my uncle’s feet to greet me, tails wagging slowly, as far past their bedtimes as Jonas is.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” I tell him.

He grunts a little at that, standing up out of the swing. “Did it go all right?”

“I think so. Those pictures helped. They’re sending someone in tomorrow morning, first thing.”

He looks impressed. “That fast?”

“Because of Carrie,” I say. “She’s kind of amazing.”

“I suppose so. You got something to eat?”

“We stopped at McDonald’s.” Which makes him grimace, but since there aren’t any fast food chains in Fortune City—and the nearest one is a forty-five-minute drive away—both Carrie and I thought it was a pretty awesome treat. Sure, the hamburger patties can’t compare to my grass-fed beef. But my god, Big Macs are tasty. “Is Ethan already out?”

I really thought he’d be waiting for me here. Or come to meet me when I arrived.

“Maybe. I saw him at dinner. Didn’t see him after that.”

“Okay.” Refusing to feel deflated, I run up the stairs to my room, strip out of my banking clothes, and pull on a pair of long sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing a quilt and the package of condoms that I picked up at a gas station convenience store, I head back down.

At the bottom, I almost run into Jonas, who’s on his way up.

His brows shoot upward. “You’re going out?”

“Yeah.” My cheeks are on fire. “I thought I’d keep Ethan company for a while. And tell him how it went down in Boise.”

“Ah.” That sound is loaded with so much understanding that my face flames even brighter. “I think he mostly stays up around Picnic Rock.”

Which isn’t an official name, but the name I gave the stony outcropping on one of the hills across from the river’s bend. From it, you can see the ranch’s full spread, and when I was younger, it was my favorite place to go picnicking with my mom and dad. “Okay. Goodnight!”

He nods and starts up the stairs. “Be safe.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to the shotgun I’ve kept in my truck since the slaughter, or the condoms stashed in the folds of my quilt. Either way…I guess I’m covered, safety-wise.

I drive up the road, half-expecting Ethan to appear out of nowhere like he did last night. But I reach the bottom of Picnic Rock without spotting a werewolf, and pull off onto the shoulder of the road. Turning off the engine, I get out and listen to the night. Only crickets.

And my own voice. “Ethan?”

Nothing. But my pulse thunders, and my anticipation ratchets tighter.

A blanket of high, wispy clouds dim the pale light of a quarter moon. I grab my flashlight, tuck the quilt under my arm, and begin climbing the deer trail that offers the best path upward. The hillside is mostly bare, studded with rocks and low-lying shrubs dried out by the long summer, and clumps of long yellow grass. Hiking through them is about as quiet as a kid munching his way through a bag of potato chips.

No werewolf comes to investigate the crunchy, yummy noise.

Undaunted, I hike on. My thighs burn from the sharp incline. I reach Picnic Rock out of breath, sweating from the exertion. A breeze slides past my heated face and I wonder if that will bring him. My scent on the wind. The rope pulling him in.

Until he has to leave again.

My heart clenches at that unbidden thought, and I close my eyes, willing it away. Not tonight. Tonight is just about being with him. The rest…I’ll worry about later.

A soft growl reverberates right behind me. My eyes fly open and I whip around. In his warrior’s skin, Ethan looms over me, all in shadow with the moon behind him, his eyes a fierce amber glow.

“Hey, cowboy.” I grin up at him, giddy with excitement, and show him the goodies I’m carrying. “I’ve got a blanket, some rubbers…and I put on my kissing panties.”

Which are already so, so wet.

His teeth gleam in a wolfish smile. His enormous hands circle my waist and pull me closer. Carefully, he swings me up into the cradle of his arms, holding me against a massive chest covered in shaggy fur.

Then he begins racing down the hill. Not bothering with the trail, but covering the distance in leaps and bounds. I can’t stop my initial shriek when he jumps off Picnic Rock, but held securely in Ethan’s strong arms, the rest is a stunning, terrifying thrill ride—

That abruptly ends at my truck.

Dizzy, out of breath, I can’t even ask what’s going on when he deposits me in the driver’s seat. I watch through the windshield as he changes into human form and pulls on a pair of jeans that had been tossed on top of the hood.

He opens the door, the overhead light illuminating his chest—which is a lot less furry now. Just hair-roughened skin over slabs of hardened muscle.

“I thought you would come to the bunkhouse,” he says.

“Oh.” A breathless laugh slips from me. “And I thought you would already be out here, doing your thing.”

“Yeah.” There’s a rough edge to his voice that isn’t his usual growl, and the light snaps off when he gets in and closes the door—not giving me enough time to read his expressive face.

“Ethan,” I whisper, sliding across the bench seat toward him, driven by need.

And there’s the growl—as he reaches for me. The hungry sound he makes deep in his chest when his mouth captures mine, as I open for the hot thrust of his tongue. Pleasure spills through me and I push closer, awkwardly trying to situate my legs around the gearshift, wanting to feel so much more of him against me.

Except he pulls back, shaking his head. “Not here.”

Dismay shoots through me. “No?”

It seems as good a place as any.

“No.” As if in frustration or anger, he drags a clawed hand through his hair, then pins me with that golden stare. “I get it. You don’t take men back to the ranch. You don’t have hookups at home. But I won’t be a fuck on the side of the road, Makena. Not with you.”

Everything inside me goes painfully still. That’s what he thought I was doing? Because I haven’t taken anyone home before. And I told him so, the night we met—that a man would have to mean a hell of a lot to me before I ever took him back to the ranch.

I can’t let Ethan think he doesn’t mean anything. “That’s not why,” I whisper, my throat raw with all the emotion that I feel for him. “I was just…in a rush. And horny. Because I’d been thinking of you all day.”

It’s so damn unfair that I can’t see his face in the dark as well as he can see mine. All I see are those golden eyes studying me.

Then finally, a slow nod. “Let’s head back to the bunkhouse, then. The bed’s a lot softer than the rock up there is.”

So it is. I start the engine, but everything’s changed. As if my vagina dragged me out here, but my heart’s taking me back.

Yet heading back feels wrong. Like it’s not enough.

Because it’s not.

I’m still slick and aching with need as I park in front of the main house, but the fullness in my chest is all I can feel as I grab the quilt and the condoms. “Stay put,” I tell him, and I don’t know what he thinks—maybe that I’m going to drop off these things at home before continuing on to the bunkhouse—but I open the passenger door and reach for his hand, instead. “Come on.”

And Ethan looks at me—he looks at me—like I’ve just given him everything.

“Makena,” he says, and it’s pure gravel. As if he’s about to follow it up by asking whether I’m sure. Because he’s not certain if I am.

I slip my fingers through his and gently pull. “We’ll use my bed.”

Silently he follows me, a dangerous mountain of a man with bare feet and rumpled hair and glowing amber eyes. With my hand in his, I lead him through the front door and slowly up the stairs.

He’s huge even when he’s not in his wolfskin, seeming to overwhelm the generous dimensions of my bedroom. There I let go of his hand, dropping the quilt on my big reading chair and the condoms on the nightstand, before hurriedly clearing my discarded banking clothes off the bedspread. I expect him to look around, to check out the pictures I’ve hung up or simply to take in what kind of private space I’ve created for myself, but his shining gaze remains on me as if there’s nothing else in the room.

My heart racing, I cross over to my bureau, where my jewelry box sits. With shaking fingers, I remove the silver rings—then answer the question I read on his face.

Softly I tell him, “I want to be able to touch you.”

His eyes close and a tortured sound breaks from his chest, not quite a groan or a laugh, but something in between. “You’ll kill me tonight, Makena. You’re giving me so much all at once.”

“Do you want me to take it back?”

Instantly his predatory gaze clashes with mine again, a snarl curling his lips. “Never.”

I smile, satisfied with that reaction. “Good.”

“Damn good,” he agrees harshly, his clawed fingers flexing at his sides. “And now you have fifteen seconds to strip off everything that you don’t want ripped off.”

A rush of need knocks the breath from my lungs. For a full second I simply stare at him. Then he takes a step toward me and I tear off my hoodie, dropping it to the floor. My sweatpants follow, and I try to kick them free of my feet even as I reach back to unsnap my bra.

Then my fingers go to my panties, and I pause. Because they’re pretty. But also cheap.

His eyes gleam when I let them stay right where they are. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” I confirm.

So swiftly that I don’t see him move, he snags one arm around my waist and hauls me close, lifting me off of my feet. Gasping, I clutch at his broad shoulders for balance. The world spins out from under me—but it’s just Ethan, pivoting toward the bed and then gently, gently laying me across it, on my back with my knees bent and my feet resting on the mattress’s edge.

Softly he growls my name, leaning over me with his knee braced on the bed between my legs, my wrists trapped in his right hand and pinned over my head. For what seems an eternity, he doesn’t touch me. His gaze simply worships my body, and I urge him along by arching my back, drawing his attention to my hardened nipples.

“Ethan.” It’s a desperate plea.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Makena,” he rasps, and a tremor shakes his fingers as he traces the curve of my breast. “And you’ve got me so wound up, I’m about to snap.”

And lose control.

Hot need clenches deep inside me. “Do it. Hard and fast and rough.”

He groans like I just killed him, then shakes his head, bending closer.

I arch toward him again in frustration. “Just rip off my panties and fuck me— Oh, god,” I gasp when his tongue roughly flicks my nipple before he latches on, sucking the turgid peak into his hot mouth. “Or this is good, too.”

So good. My entire body seems to tighten with each pull of his mouth. Another gasp escapes me when his teeth gently pinch, and I feel that soft bite all the way to my clit. But just as enthralling is Ethan’s face, his rapt hunger and how every inch of my skin seems like the sweetest candy to him.

Candy that just makes him even more ravenous. With a growl, he moves to my other breast—then abruptly stiffens, his entire body like steel above me.

His tormented gaze shoots to mine. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not,” I whisper—and I see now why he stopped. Though they’re already retreating, his fangs are long and his teeth sharp. “You just need more practice, right? So we’ll practice. A lot.”

His face softens. “Yeah, we will.”

Leaning forward, he claims my mouth with a passion that leaves me overwhelmed and shaking.

Then shaking even harder as he breaks the kiss and rolls me onto my stomach.

“Like this?” he growls against my ear, his bare chest burning against my back.

Oh god. “Yes.”

“Good. If my fangs keep popping out, I won’t frighten you.”

Because I won’t see them. But they wouldn’t frighten me, anyway.

Although…one part of him does. “Would you completely change?”

His laugh is a short, deep rumble. “No.” Softly he kisses the side of my throat. “That size would only hurt you—and my instinct to protect you is even deeper than my need to fuck you, Makena. So I would never wear that skin when I’m inside you, on purpose or not. Now—”

The breath whooshes from my lungs when he abruptly moves back, gripping my hips and hauling me up to my knees. I rise up onto my hands, but a gentle yet firm palm between my shoulder blades urges me down onto my elbows.

“Sweet Christ, Makena.” That rough, hungry edge is back in his voice. “And this is another reason I’d never wear that skin with you. Because I wouldn’t be able to tell you how gorgeous you are. And I couldn’t suck on your hot little clit.”

My heart stops as he slips his fingers beneath the waist of my panties. Fisting my hands in the bedspread, I whimper with need and anticipation as his claws shred the thin material. With a sharp tug and pull, he rips my panties apart.

Then I cry out, jolting forward as his long, rough tongue licks the length of my pussy. Oh god. My head swims with sheer pleasure as he immediately seeks out my clit, sucking and licking, the sound of his ravenous groans echoing in my ears with the pounding of my heart.

He begins to tease with long lazy swirls of his tongue. Circling and circling. My clit. My entrance. Licking through my folds as if gathering up all my wetness, then returning to tease again but never rough enough or fast enough to make me come. Until my pussy is an agony of arousal and need, my inner walls tightening with every unfulfilling pass of his tongue.

“Ethan.” I beg him with sobbing breaths. “Please.”

The rasp of his zipper almost has me weeping with relief. Then the tear of a foil packet. His left hand grips my hip, and I go utterly still as I feel the thick, blunt head of his cock parting the seam of my cunt.

“Your pussy’s so damn pretty,” Ethan groans, slicking the tip down through my slippery folds. “So wet and ready for me.”

A laugh shakes through me. “I’ve been ready for so long.”

“And you went up on that hill looking for me.”

“Yes.” It emerges as a gasp when he lodges his cockhead against my entrance and pushes against me. Oh so lightly. Not enough to stretch me open and fill me up. “Ethan.”

His breathing is labored and rough. “You went up there intending to take me.”

“Yes.”

I bite my lip, moaning as he presses against me again. But not hard enough to overcome the resistance of flesh swollen with arousal, taut with need.

“To make me yours,” he grates out. “Is that right?”

“Yes!”

“Then you take me now, Makena,” he commands roughly. “You take all of me that you can.”

I push back in the same moment that he shoves deep, filling me all at once with explosive pressure and heat. Jagged lightning streaks behind my eyes and I cry out, the pleasure of his possession almost unbearable as my inner walls struggle to accommodate his massive size.

Behind me, Ethan makes a rough, animalistic sound, a snarl and a growl rolled into one. “Your pussy is so fucking tight.”

Helplessly I laugh. “With a cock like yours, every pussy must be tight.”

“Ah, Makena.” He grinds into me, not thrusting as I so desperately need. “Being inside a tight pussy isn’t what’s blowing my mind. What’s blowing my mind is that this tight pussy is yours.”

His hand slides down around my hip, and I suck in a ragged breath as he begins playing with my clit. As if pulled by a string, my inner walls constrict around his thick shaft. A choking noise erupts from him, then with a feral grunt he pulls back and drives into me, then again, the forward jolt hurtling me against the tease of his fingers and keeps winding me up, tightening as he screws into me deep and hard. I can’t catch my breath, not even to scream as he rams an orgasm into me with each heavy thrust.

One more forceful stroke, and my entire body locks up as I come, my pussy frantically clenching around his cock. With a vicious snarl, Ethan swears and goes utterly still inside me.

“Goddamn your hot cunt,” he growls and his big body shakes against mine. “Squeezing and pulling at my cock like you’re trying to suck the cum out of me. But I’m not fucking done.”

His thick cock pumps into me, two short shallow thrusts as he curses through gritted teeth, as if he wants to hold still but can’t stop himself from fucking into my convulsing pussy. I drag in air on a desperate gasp, my body suddenly releasing. The strength abandons my muscles, turning my elbows and legs to jelly, and I collapse forward onto my belly. Ethan’s cock slips out of me, and he laughs and groans at once, slowly coming down over me like a blanket, his swollen shaft a wet heavy weight nestled in the split of my ass.

His warm lips open over my shoulder, and he suckles the skin there before asking gruffly, “Can you take more? I want to feel you come on my cock again.”

And he hasn’t come at all. Yet he’s not even asking for that. But I’m not sure I can give him what he wants, because I’m completely undone, my senses devastated by that orgasm.

“I’ll take everything you give me,” I tell him, still boneless and breathless. “But I don’t think I can come again.”

“You just lie there, then, while I do my thing.” A little laugh shakes through me at that, then a sigh as his warmth retreats from my back and he rises up on his knees. “All right if I use one of these fancy pillows?”

Not fancy. Just covered in a pillowcase of washable silk. But it probably does seem more luxurious than the cotton sheets and rustic bedspread. “Use anything you want.”

His deep chuckle says that I ought to be careful about what I offer, but he only kisses the base of my spine before lifting my hips and shoving the folded pillow beneath. The position leaves my ass tilted up and my back slightly arched, and me feeling utterly comfortable lying with my head pillowed in my arms.

And utterly decadent as he enters me again. We both moan, because I’m completely spent but the sensation of that thick cock pushing its way through my slick flesh is pure heaven, as is the feel of Ethan covering me with his big body again. Alongside my shoulders, he braces his weight on his forearms and entwines his fingers with mine.

“Is this all right?” With his jaw, he pushes my hair aside and nuzzles at the side of my neck. “You don’t feel that I’m crowding you into the bed?”

Because he’s surrounding me…not quite like the night in my kitchen when he pushed me into a corner. But he’s wearing his claws again—and maybe his fangs—and I’m barely able to move.

Yet it’s entirely different. I don’t feel afraid. I feel safe and protected. I feel wanted…and loved. And filled up, in every way. With his cock, with the emotions that are bursting through my heart, with the hope that this will never have to end.

“It’s all good,” I whisper.

And then so good as he begins slowly pumping into me. Our fingers fully entwined, he buries his face against my neck, his hot breath puffing against my cheek and throat. Barely any of his weight is on me, just a gentle press above my shoulders, the rhythmic pressure against my ass that’s never hard enough to push me deeper into the pillow, the thick hairy thighs brushing the outside and backs of mine. My lower spine is curved to accommodate the tilt of my hips, and as he continues those slow sliding thrusts, I deepen the arch, like a cat stretching beneath him, luxuriating in the delicious ecstasy he’s building inside me.

“Harder now,” I breathe.

Ethan growls softly but his pace doesn’t quicken, his thrusts don’t deepen. Leisurely, he pushes into me again, my swollen channel stretching to accept his thick inches. I’m so aroused, so sensitive that every vein and ridge along his shaft seems to drag fiery sparks of pleasure from my nerve endings, the friction like flint over stone.

I tilt my pelvis back, forcing him deeper, but he only releases my right hand and clamps his fingers over my hip, holding me still for another slow, slow, slow thrust.

Those sparks in my pussy start flashing behind my eyes. A soft whine breaks from my throat. “Ethan,” I pant against the bedspread. “Do your thing.”

“I am doing it,” he says, and his voice is slurred, as if he’s intoxicated by this pleasure instead of being tortured by it.

“Then do another thing. A wolfkin thing. Fuck me like a beast.”

His snarling growl makes me think for an instant that he’ll do it then, fucking me from behind without restraint or control, but instead he curses, his fingers tightening on my hip.

“I am doing my wolfkin thing.” The harsh gravel in his reply is the only roughness in him as he leisurely pumps into me again. “You think I don’t want to wreck your pussy? Hold you down and pound into your hot cunt until it gives me what I want?”

“Oh god.” That’s exactly what I need. “Do it.”

“I can’t,” he says with a tortured groan. “Not when your pussy is telling me this is what it wants. Being a wolfkin ain’t about fucking you hard, Makena. It means I take care of my woman every single goddamn way that I can. And right now, your pussy is melting around me. So fucking hot and wet, and your juices dripping off my dick every time I pull back. So you beg and squirm all you like, but your pussy loves my cock taking you nice and slow. And this is how I’ll take care of you, because your cunt is screaming how much you love it.”

Helplessly I shake my head, biting back a scream of frustration. I do love it. But I want more. “Deeper, then,” I demand breathlessly, shaking beneath him. “That monster you’ve got ought to be filling me up.”

His answering growl is followed by a snarled, “Then let me in. Open up these gorgeous thighs so I can get up in there.”

I spread my knees so fast the bedspread fabric burns my skin, then hold utterly still as Ethan repositions himself between my legs. A sobbing breath escapes me as his cock pushes into me again, then I muffle a scream as he keeps going deeper, all the way to end of me. As he bottoms out, his balls gently slap against my pussy, a subtle kiss against my clit that sends ecstasy blazing through every nerve in my body.

“Christ,” he grates out, his breathing harsh and ragged. “You’re taking every inch of me. And you’re so fucking wet, melting all over me, while my dick’s been dripping with the need to come since I got into you. Even wearing this rubber, it’s all so goddamn slick and hot it feels like I’m bare inside you.”

And I can barely withstand the pleasure of it. My entire body’s trembling wildly as he strokes into me again, the exquisite sensation of him filling me drowning in the anticipation of that blinding moment he reaches the end. When he does, I cry out, trying to thrash my hips, to hold him there so deep inside me, but he makes a rough, almost angry noise, and continues his torturously slow fuck.

His long tongue scrapes up the side of my throat in a rough, wet lick before he growls into my ear, “You start coming and I’ll give you what you want. Though Christ knows I’ll only last a few pumps with your cunt choking the cum out of me. But I’ll fuck you good and hard, Makena.”

Just the promise almost sends me flying over. As does his next slow pump deep inside me, and the teasing kiss of his balls against my clit as he bottoms out. My inner muscles cinch tight in response to the erotic agony of those doubled sensations. Behind me, Ethan snarls and suddenly pushes against me harder, grinding against my clit and so deep within me, and the doubled sensation explodes into infinity. Then I’m screaming, screaming, and with frenzied grunts Ethan pounds his massive cock into my convulsing pussy—before holding so still and deep, roaring my name as he comes. The throb of his thick shaft against my inner walls makes me clench around him, then he goes again, another hard thrust that sends me rocketing into another orgasm.

His weight suddenly comes down over me, his chest heaving against my sweaty back. Before the heavy pressure restricts my breathing, he pulls me over onto my side, spooned behind me, his cock still buried within my quaking pussy.

“Fuck,” he pants with awe in his voice, and presses an openmouthed kiss to the side of my jaw. “Hot damn.”

I laugh against him, then shudder as an aftershock rips through me, squeezing his dick. With a low groan, he holds me tight until my shaking eases, then reluctantly reaches down between us, gently slipping out of me.

“You stay here. I’ll clean you up and— Fuck.”

I look back. He’s got the condom off, and he examines it for a second before smearing his fingers through the wetness on the inside of my thigh, sniffing. “Did it break?”

“No.” He’s frowning. “Just overfilled and spilled out the bottom. I don’t think any got into you, but I can go get one of those morning-after pills tomorrow.”

“You’d have to drive to Coeur d’Alene for that because the local pharmacy doesn’t carry them.” I sit up. “But if none got into me, we should be okay. Does that usually happen—overfilling?”

“No.” He slides off the bed, heading for the bathroom. “Usually there’s just a few little squirts. But I suppose my fungus really wants to get you pregnant.”

I’m still laughing as he returns to the bed, then my laughter dissolves into giggling surprise and I start squirming as his ‘clean you up’ turns out to be with his tongue, not a washcloth as I assumed. He works his way up to my belly, where he flicks his tongue into my navel before looking up at me.

Softly he asks, “You want me to head back to the bunkhouse or stay?”

“Stay,” I tell him, my heart suddenly tight and aching. Stay forever, if you can.

His eyes flare bright, and his voice has a husky edge as he climbs up to lie down at my side, propped up on his elbow and looking down at me. “Good thing about you being so tall is that you’ve got a long bed—even longer than the one in the bunkhouse. I don’t like it when my feet hang over. I’m always afraid something will reach up and grab them.”

Laughing, I wrap my arms around him. “I’ll protect you,” I swear. “Because you’re mine now, right?”

And he says gruffly, “I’m pretty damn sure that I always have been.”

18

ETHAN

I WAKE up to the exquisite torture of Makena’s tongue working a hot path up the length of my cock. Fuck. Instantly hungry, I reach for her but she bats my hand away, making a warning noise in her throat before lifting her head.

“We don’t have much time. The alarm’s about to go off,” she whispers huskily, laying her soft cheek against my shaft, her lips moist and full.

“So am I,” I tell her through gritted teeth.

She grins, holding my gaze through the early morning dark, before leaning in and swirling her tongue around the fat head of my cock.

The air hisses through my teeth. “Makena—”

“Shh. You never let me touch you last night.”

But she touches me now, stroking my dick with both hands while she sucks the broad tip into her mouth. Her gaze flicks upward, and she only pauses for a second to take in the sight of my face, but I know what she’s seeing.

Me, battling for control, trying to keep still and losing my fucking mind. Because with every lick and stroke, her scent’s blooming, too. Syrupy and hot and spiced with her arousal, as if she absolutely loves what she’s doing to me. Her breathing is heavy, her eyes at a blissful half-mast as she sips away the pre-cum dripping from the tip. And I don’t know whether to cry with agony or relief when she says in a throaty voice, “Toss me one of those condoms.”

But it’s agony and relief. The way she sucks me deep one more time before rolling on the rubber. The way she pushes me back down when I sit up, saying without a word that this is her show to run. The way she swings her leg over my hips and straddles me, her pussy slick with her need. The way she so greedily grips my shaft, aiming my thick cock at her little entrance.

Scalding wetness engulfs the head of my dick. She gasps like she’s drowning, her head falling back as she takes more of me in. Her pussy’s so tight that she has to work at it, rocking and twisting her hips, wrecking my mind with every inch she gains.

When she takes in the full length, it’s almost like she collapses from the effort, falling forward and bracing her hands on my chest.

Then she just sits there, clutching my cock within her paradise of heat, her body barely moving. Except for the way her heaving breaths sway through her, the way her thundering heart rushes the blood through her veins. Except for the tiniest grind of her hips that stirs me inside her, not up and down or back and forth, but just the slightest circling movement, those taut inner walls subtly torturing every inch of my cock.

“Makena.” Gut-ripping need turns her name into a snarl. “Ride me.”

She laughs a little, and the amusement shakes through her body, tormenting me with a tremor of hot cunt around my cock. “But, Ethan—your dick is so big and hard inside my tight, melting pussy. So I know you like it. No matter how much you fight and squirm.”

Fuck. Maybe I deserve this, then. I groan and laugh. “Yeah, I do. I fucking love it.”

Teasing me, she arches her back, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples. That pinch is echoed in the clench of her pussy around me, and her breathing deepens, her scent thickening into sheer desire.

And I can’t keep myself from touching her anymore. Palming her thighs, I slide my hands up, watching her face as I sweep my thumb inward over her clit. Her pussy walls tighten again, and she gasps a little, but doesn’t push my hand away.

Hell yes. I lick my thumb, tasting her juices and then sending it right back in. Her pussy lips are stretched tight to accommodate the width of my cock spearing deep inside her. The heat’s just pouring off her skin, like the wetness slicking her cunt.

She groans as I begin working her clit, her body tightening up, inside and out. And when she starts grinding harder over me, it’s as if she can’t help it. She closes her eyes, her face flushed and glowing with sweat, those plush lips parted as she pants and moans.

The alarm blares on the nightstand. Cursing, Makena leans forward to shut it off, her pussy stroking up the length of my cock as she moves. Finally. Biting back a howl of pleasure, I throw back my head against her silk pillow, struggling against the urge to drive upward and bury myself deep again. With her bottom lip clenched between her teeth, Makena stops with the head of my cock just inside her, as if she can’t bear to let me slip out, and swats at the clock. She misses.

Because she can’t reach. In order to, she’ll have to get off my cock. But my arms are longer than hers.

Growling, I reach out and silence the damn thing.

Another laugh shakes through her. “You didn’t have to kill it.”

Yeah, I did. And its death wasn’t in vain, because I’m still inside her—and when she sits back, fills herself up with my cock again, this time she doesn’t just rock and grind. With a flex of her strong thighs, she begins to ride.

And thank Christ for it, because I’d been going fucking insane, though this is a new kind of torment, not pounding up into her but letting her set the pace. Blistering pleasure scalds the length of my shaft. A grunt rips from my chest every time she crams herself full of me, and I clench my teeth against the need to beg as she rises up, her pussy sucking my cock the whole way. I get my hand between us again, strumming her clit, rougher and faster, matching the rhythm she’s setting, and in a few more strokes her movements are disjointed and frenzied, the sounds coming from her like she’s hurting, like it’s too much, but she doesn’t stop.

Then all at once she does, eyes closed and lips parted and thighs trembling, her cunt tightening. So fucking beautiful. I slick my thumb roughly over her throbbing clit and her eyes fly wide. Even as her pussy starts fluttering around me, she lurches her upper body forward, grabbing my hair and dragging me up for a kiss that’s just our mouths opening together as she comes, her ragged scream breaking against my lips.

That strangled wail shreds my restraint. Fingers clamping down on her rounded cheeks, I fill my palms with her gorgeous ass and hold her in place for a brutal upward thrust. Makena cries out and those erotic flutters of her inner muscles become stronger, more frantic.

Raging need boils in the base of my spine like liquid lightning. Bracing my feet, I ruthlessly pump into her convulsing sheath, long and hard strokes that jar her forward into the hot and wet of my kiss. Her fingernails dig into my scalp, as if it’s all she can to do hang on through the savage fucking beneath her. Her old bed creaks and squeals, her tits bouncing, her thighs shaking as she clings tight. There’s no hope of lasting. Not at this rough pace. My body could keep it up but the rest of me can’t, not my heart when she whimpers and moans my name, not my mind as she kisses me frantically and starts coming again, her pussy squeezing me so fucking tight. I slam deep and hold, roaring at the eruption of heat that doesn’t seem to start anywhere near my cock but from a volcanic flow at the top of my head, everywhere she’s touching me, setting my whole body on fire. The world burns around me in a white-hot flash, and I come to with Makena sprawled sweating over my chest, my cock still buried in her clinging wetness, and her beautiful smile aimed down at me.

“Good morning,” she says huskily.

Grinning, I lift my head and kiss her. “The best damn morning.”

“It is. And I get the bathroom first.”

“All right by me.” I’ll just lie here in her bed, wondering when I’m really going to wake up. Because I sure as hell didn’t expect to be here. Not in her room, holding her close all night. Makena bringing me into her house knocked the heart and the soul right out of me, put them square in her hands. And even after tasting her, after making her claim me as hers, something in my chest still feels like it’s been shaken loose and hasn’t yet settled in. Because I started falling for Makena real quick—but even that night on her porch swing, she kept a few fences up between us. I thought they’d be there for a long time.

Instead she let me in. Just about every way there is, Makena let me in.

While I take my turn in the bathroom, Makena skips her way down to the kitchen, humming to herself and sounding so happy that my heart swells up like a goddamn king’s. I haul on my jeans and head down the stairs. Jonas does a double-take when I come into the room, barechested, bareheaded, and barefoot. He looks more stunned than the first time he saw my warrior’s skin.

I suppose if Makena’s never brought anyone else home, my being in her room all night is practically like announcing an engagement.

He doesn’t say a thing about it, though. Just offers me a good morning while the dogs say their good mornings, too.

And it’s like nothing else changed. Makena and I head out to the barn, start the morning chores. It’s all the same. Yet the whole world feels brand new.

Brand new for me and Makena, anyway. All the rest of it is filled with the same old shit.

Makena and I are down in the pasture, moving the cattle to their new grazing patch when I hear Sheriff McKinley’s engine coming down the road toward the ranch. I give her a heads-up, then watch the worry tighten her eyes and mouth as we finish up and drive back to the barn.

No need to guess what she’s worrying about. I didn’t meet that Fauconnier fellow, but Jonas strikes me as someone who’s real good at reading people. He pegged me for what I really was in no time, though the only kin he’d met before were the bears who killed Makena’s parents. He’s also got a fine way with animals, likely because he’s good at reading all their signals, too. So if he’s of a mind that Fauconnier might silence those three assholes who tore out their fences and then try to throw the blame this direction, I’m inclined to think that Jonas has it right.

I’m also inclined to think that maybe Fauconnier and I might have a little chat sometime in the near future. Makena isn’t so inclined that I do, though.

And maybe she’d be right. When Makena hired me, her friend Carrie was worried that I’d bring more trouble onto her. I don’t ever want to do that—and going after Fauconnier, telling him to stay the fuck away from her and her ranch, might blow back hard. So as satisfying as it might be, I won’t go looking for him.

If the fucker comes this way, though… I’m not promising anything.

When we pull up to the barn, McKinley’s standing at the corral fence, watching Jonas saddle one of the fillies, and talking easily enough that I don’t figure he’s here to tell us that he found those three boys dead and my fingerprints planted on the bodies.

“Hey, Kyle.” Those lips that were all over my cock this morning are now curved in a tight, wary smile. “Are you just dropping by, or is this an official visit?”

“A little of both,” he tells her, and I see her tension ratchet up. “Because I just got a call from the state saying that they’re temporarily shutting down MDC’s site during the investigation—”

“Already?” She gapes at him in astonishment that’s quickly followed by triumph. “Yes!”

“But that information came with a warning—so I’m passing that warning on.”

I frown. “What kind of warning?”

“As a courtesy, they’re informing local law enforcement of their decision before making it official. So we can prepare.”

“Just in case putting a bunch of townspeople temporarily out of work doesn’t go over so well,” I realize grimly.

“Yep,” McKinley confirms. “I expect some grumbling, for certain. A whole lot of drinking, too. But they’ll all be able to draw unemployment—and the state says that if MDC falls into compliance regarding the mines quickly enough, then they’ll let them continue construction beginning next week. So that might help keep people settled down.”

“Yet you need to pass on the warning to us?” Makena asks, her eyes troubled. “You think word got out that we’re the ones who brought that evidence to the state?”

Kyle shakes his head. “They came in like it was a random inspection. But there’s some townsfolk already pushing blame your way for supposedly preventing MDC from getting all those new jobs open. And you never know what kind of nonsense gets into people’s heads—especially since there’s some other stupid shit going around about how you had Charlie Langerman arrested for no good reason. On the other hand, you recently doled out thousands of dollars worth of free dog food and had a bunch of cattle slaughtered, so there’s others feeling pretty kindly toward you right now. I’m just saying… emotions will be running high. So be extra careful over the next few days. All right?”

She nods. “We will.”

He looks satisfied by that, but I’m pretty damn sure neither Jonas or I are. As McKinley drives away and Makena heads toward the house, Jonas says quietly, “You’re going to stay close to her, yeah?”

As close as I possibly can.

19

MAKENA

IF KYLE’S worries had come true and someone made trouble for us, I wouldn’t have had time to deal with it anyway. Over the next couple of days, it seems like every one of our fall-calving heifers gives birth—so over those couple of days, barely anyone on the ranch gets a wink of sleep. And on Saturday afternoon, I hit my annual “screw this preserving-my-own-food shit, I’m moving to the city and buying my groceries like normal people” breaking point while canning corn and pears in a steaming, sweltering kitchen.

So after I pull the last jar out of the water bath, I run upstairs to change, and head outside beneath a glaring sun. We’re two weeks into October but summer still hasn’t loosened its grip. The long warm season is perfect for the new calves and good for the ranch overall. But lordy, it’s hot. And because my brain says it’s autumn, somehow the weather seems even hotter than it is in July, when the temperature is higher.

I find Ethan in the yard, working on the hay baler. Today he’s winterizing all of the equipment that’ll be stored away until next spring and summer—and it appears that he’s feeling the heat, too. He’s stripped off his T-shirt and tucked it into the back of his jeans’ waistband, and I would tease him about having a tail if the sight of him didn’t leave my tongue hanging out and too useless to say a word.

Because that man. Holy shit. He’s still wearing his hat—most likely so the sun stays out of his eyes—but his chest is bare, his torso a sheer miracle of tanned muscle gleaming with sweat. He braces his hand and leans in to spray WD-40 on something in the baler’s guts, and the arm bearing his weight becomes a hard, sculpted marvel. And his ass. Good lord, that ass.

He has to know I’m here, too. Ogling him. He always knows when I’m near.

So he must deliberately be ignoring me, generously allowing me a minute more to look. Then I roll my tongue back up into my mouth and call out, “Hey, cowboy!”

He glances over at me, eyes narrowing. Straightening up, he asks in a low rumble, “Is that a bikini you’re wearing?”

Bright yellow, with a tiny pair of denim shorts covering the bottoms. “If I see one more Mason jar in the next two hours, I’ll probably flip my lid. So I’m thinking about heading down to the swimming hole and playing hooky. Wanna join me?”

“Well, that’ll depend on whether certain attire is required.” He sets down the can of lubricant and starts walking toward me, and lust lashes through my belly like a whip. In those low slung jeans, his loose-hipped swagger drawls one word with each step. Sex. Sex. Sex. My eyes go straight to that corrugated abdomen, the ridge of muscle defining his hips, the happy trail that leads to the bulge swelling behind his zipper. “Because I don’t own a pair of swimming shorts.”

“You don’t need any,” I tell him breathlessly.

“I suppose I’ll go swimming, then.” He reaches me, tips my chin up with one long forefinger, lifting my gaze from the little bead of sweat slipping it’s way over a massive pectoral and up to his whiskey-brown eyes. “We still on for tonight?”

A date. Kind of. Because Carrie asked if I wanted to hang out with her and Kyle at the Silver Dollar tonight, and I asked Ethan if he wanted to come along, and he agreed on the condition that he could take me out to dinner first.

“Absolutely,” I say, and that answer pleases him as much as the first time I said it. He kisses me, long and slow, and suddenly the heat from the sun is just a cold, pale imitation of what’s coming off him.

He must think so, too. Against my lips, he murmurs, “We better get to that swimming hole before I fuck you right here in the dirt.”

My heart thudding, I nod and gesture to the tote bag slung over my shoulder. “I’ve got towels. We’ll take the four-wheeler.”

Which I drive, with Ethan straddling the seat behind me and his big hand down the front of my shorts. The pasture passes in a blur around us, the rushing sound of the river drowned out by the “You’re already so fucking wet for me, your pussy’s just soaking this dirty hot bikini” that he growls into my ear as his fingers tease my clit, breaking about every safety guideline that a person ought to be following on a quad bike.

As soon as we reach the bend in the river, I cut the engine and take his hand, leading him down to the water’s edge. God knows how many thousands of years of the river’s changing course carved out this perfect little pool on the inward side of the bend. The current on the outward side flows swiftly, but on this side it’s mostly just still water with a few gentle eddies to keep the pool clean and clear.

“It gets deep fast, and some of the rocks at the bottom are sharp,” I warn him, carefully picking my way down though the jagged stones and jutting boulders that line the bank of the river. A narrow dock acts like a short boardwalk at the swimming hole’s edge—built by Jonas and my father, who both got tired of repairing all of the inner tubes that my friends and I would accidentally puncture by putting the tubes down on the riverbank.

Now the dock serves as a place to lay out our towels and shed my shorts. Ethan’s got a bit more to take off, and as his first boot thunks to the dock’s wooden surface, I tell him, “You should know that the first rule of the swimming hole is—”

“We gotta swim naked?”

I refuse to laugh, narrowing my eyes at him. “No. It’s ‘Don’t get Makena’s hair wet.’ Unless—”

“But getting the rest of you wet is fair game, yeah?” His gaze drops hungrily to my bikini bottoms.

“Unless,” I continue, “It’s on a day when I’ll be washing it later anyway. And it is.”

Amusement dances in his eyes. “You’re saying I get to dunk you?”

“I’m saying you can try.”

“All right.” He unbuttons his jeans. “So what’s the second rule of the swimming hole?”

“That’s it. There’s just one rule. Other than that, it’s every man for himself.”

“Every man? Seeing as you’re a woman and I’m wolfkin, I’m thinking we need a new set of rules.”

“Such as?” But I’m not really listening because his erect cock just made its appearance and, one thing’s for sure, the cowboy is blessed.

So am I, every time I get that monster between my thighs.

“That ‘gotta swim naked’ rule, of course.”

I laugh. “You’ve got a one track mind.”

“So do you.” Once again, Ethan tips my gaze up to meet his, and my heart stutters as he aims his gorgeous grin down at me. “That water’s cold enough to numb my nuts, isn’t it?”

I nod solemnly. His poor dick. “Absolutely freezing.”

“All right, then,” he drawls, and I shriek out a laugh as he abruptly sweeps me up against his chest. Giggling, I cling to his neck, because if he’s about to toss me in then I’m pulling him in with me. “What do you figure the best way of getting into a girl’s swimming hole is? Easing in nice and slow…or plunging in deep and hard?”

Oh god. My thighs tense, squeezing tight together. “I’d say they both have pros and cons.”

“I don’t see any cons to either,” he counters—and leaps.

Another laughing shriek rips from me, then I close my mouth and eyes the second we hit. Icy water flashes over my skin, but we’re only under for a few seconds before I feel a powerful upward push, as if Ethan just kicked against the river bottom. Still held securely in his arms, I surface laughing and sputtering.

As soon as I’ve got air, he steals my breath again—his kiss hot and slow. Releasing my legs, he holds me against his chest with one strong arm wrapped around my waist. I hitch my thighs up over his hips and discover the river’s done nothing, absolutely nothing to numb him. The heat of his thick cock burns through the material of my bikini bottoms, his hardness an unbearable tease as we slowly rock together, as my body adjusts to the cold river until the water is no longer the reason I’m shivering.

Lifting his head, he rasps out a single word. “Condoms?”

“In the tote.”

With powerful strides, as if he’s not walking through deep water and across jagged rocks, he wades back to the dock. Easily lifting me up onto the sun-warmed boards, he follows me in a surge of cascading water. I grope blindly around inside the bag even as he pushes me back onto a towel, then spreads me open with a hand on each of my knees.

“That was a fucking stupid rule I suggested,” he says hoarsely. “Saying we ought to be naked when it’s even hotter if I just—”

—hooks his forefinger around the crotch of my bikini bottoms and tugs it roughly aside.

“Fuck, yeah,” he groans, just as my fumbling touch encounters what I’m so desperately seeking. “Gonna spend a long time playing hooky right here.”

This time he eases in nice and slow, with my thighs gripping his hips and his every kiss stealing my air. Arching beneath him, I try to hold onto it all—the cool droplets that shake loose from his hair, the hot sun against the back of my hands as I cling to his shoulders, the rhythmic lap of the dock against the water. But most of all, I try to hold onto Ethan. Onto the feel of him inside me—the thrust of his thick cock, the rumble of his voice saying how beautiful I am, the fire of his eyes that sears me from the inside out with the promise of everything he has to give.

But I just want him. Because I’ve gone so far under, I don’t know if I’ll ever surface again. I don’t know how fast I’ll drown when he’s gone.

At least he’s here now.

He gives a tortured groan and joins me as I shatter into pieces beneath him, then holds me as I slowly come back together—sprawled over his chest, my head pillowed on his broad shoulder, the sun hot against my back. This moment, this perfect moment, I should simply be happy.

Instead a splintered lump seems lodged in my throat. And—like always—Ethan seems to sense it.

“You worried about going into town tonight?” he asks quietly.

I wish I could lie and say yes. But the truth is, nothing that Kyle worried about has been a problem this week. I suspect the timing has something to do with it. In Fortune City, calling in sick for a few days during the first week of hunting season is practically a tradition. Now quite a few locals will get to collect their unemployment while they get a week off to go hunting. And any others should be mollified by how quickly everything seems to have been resolved. MDC has to pay a hefty fine, and they’ll be inspected more regularly from now on, but construction begins again on Monday.

On the home front, this is the first week that I haven’t been pestered and bombarded with offers to sell. A part of me wants to believe that Fauconnier’s given up—that the only reason he bought up Rudder’s place and went after Riverbend Ranch was because he realized the properties might be sitting on some lucrative mineral rights. But with the state breathing down his back, those mineral rights would be useless if he can’t extract them.

And maybe that’s exactly what happened. I hope that’s what has happened. But Fauconnier has a pattern now. He’ll pursue something he wants the legal way—such as applying for a mining permit. But if he doesn’t get it, he’ll take illegal steps. He already started with Charlie and my fences…and maybe by hiring someone else to slaughter my herd. We just don’t know what happened there yet.

But Ethan asked about going into town. “I’m not too worried,” I tell him.

“About MDC, then?”

“No.” That’s true, too. Mostly. “I figure that’ll resolve itself soon, one way or another. Either they’ve given up now that their mining operation is exposed or Fauconnier will make a big move to take the ranch and… Well. I’ll keep fighting him.”

His callused palm smooths down my back. “Yeah, we will.”

We. My chest tightens painfully. “What about the bearkin? How long until we think he’s given up?” Because it’s been two weeks now since my herd was slaughtered. And nothing out of the ordinary has happened since. “We don’t know that it had anything to do with my parents at all.”

“But maybe something to do with that mine.”

“Maybe. And maybe it breathed in so much tainted silver when it broke open the entrance that, after it killed my cows in a crazed frenzy, it stumbled out into the hills and died. Yet all the while, we’re waiting for it to come back and living in fear of another attack. How long do we do that?” My breath hitches a little. “Maybe my troubles are already over.”

Ethan’s silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice has a ragged edge. “So you’re wondering when I’m taking off again.”

The splintered lump in my throat grows and sharpens. “Because you will.”

“Yeah.” That raw confirmation seems scraped from his chest. “Makena, if there was—”

“I know.” Eyes burning, I hide my face against his throat. “I know you have to go. They killed your family.”

“If it was just about vengeance and getting justice for them…I wouldn’t go. I’d stay here with you.”

Even as I’m trying to process that, he abruptly rolls so that we’re both on our sides facing each other, my head cushioned on his biceps and with Ethan looking straight into my eyes, his gaze tormented and grim. His big hand cups my face before I can hide again. “But I’m not leaving to get justice for them or to have my vengeance. Not anymore. It’s about protecting you. It’s no secret my parents had a son who survived. And I never changed my name, so I’m fairly easy to find. Maybe these hunters never did because I kept drifting, kept ahead of them. But if I settle down, if this organization ever looks for me, finds me here—I couldn’t bear bringing them to your door, Makena. And if it was a few years on, and we had kids… They’d be wolfkin just like me and in danger, too. I won’t risk it. So I’ll kill these hunters and come back.”

Kids. He’s talking kids. Sheer longing rips through my chest. Ethan would be such a good father. Protective, attentive, playful.

So unexpectedly playful. When I first met Ethan, my overwhelming impression was that he was intense and a bit scary. He still is. But I can almost pinpoint the moment that he began showing his more playful side, too—it was when he first showed me his wolf skin. As if when he stopped concealing that, he stopped concealing the rest of himself, too. Because I don’t think that side of him is new. Some of what he’s told me about his family, about some of the things he and his brother used to do, makes me believe that playfulness was something else that was lost in the before and after of his family’s murders.

Since then, he’s been alone. Scary and intense. But now he’s not always so serious…and he’s talking about a family of his own.

I want that family. When he kissed me that first night, I longed for more then, too. I longed for someone to always kiss me like that. To have someone to come home to. The longing that’s tearing me apart now is so much deeper, so much sharper. Because I don’t just want somebody. I want Ethan—and it’s so easy to picture a future with him, with our children.

But he’s leaving soon. And I’m terrified that he’ll be hurt or killed.

I’m terrified he won’t come back.

His thumb sweeps over my cheekbone. “Makena,” he pleads hoarsely, “don’t cry—”

“I won’t.” I squeeze my eyes closed, holding back the tears through sheer will. A shuddering breath passes, then another before I manage to ask, “If my scent is pulling on you, will you even be able to go?”

“I’ll have to,” he says with grim determination. “Even if it kills me.”

“We’ll make sure it doesn’t come to that.” But that lump in my throat is choking me again. I roll onto my back, not quite leaving his embrace but unable to bear being face to face with him while I’m bleeding so much inside. “I have a theory about that scent, actually.”

“That it means we’re destined to be together?” he says in a lighter tone, as if trying to give me the distance I’m obviously seeking—yet I can still tell he’s serious. That he believes magic pulled me to him because we’re fated mates of some kind.

I agree that it’s probably magic, but doubt fate has anything to do with it. “I think it’s the rings. I wore them for eleven years. It might be that whatever magic bled into that silver also bled into me, and made me smell different.”

He growls a little, shaking his head. “Then you’d smell different to every one of the kin. And if that was true, every one of the kin who drove through Fortune City would have been trying to sniff you out.”

“You think that many drove through? There aren’t a whole lot of you.”

“And I’m just the one who got lucky?” His growl deepens, his eyes sparking gold and amber. “Every time I got a whiff of you, my instincts were roaring that you were perfect for me. Not just for anyone.”

“I don’t really like the thought of a bunch of random werewolves getting hot for me either, but…it makes sense.”

“How’s it make sense? You assume that some magic rope that tied up a wolf god is buried in your mine, and the magic that corrupted the silver is coming out of it—magic that will kill me. So why would that same magic bleed into you, yet you give off a scent that tells me, ‘Here’s a woman who’ll be my whole damn world’? You ought to be giving off a scent that makes my instincts roar at me to run away.”

“But it doesn’t kill you. It binds you, and prevents you from wearing your wolf skin. And what would you call a scent that acts like a rope, pulling you in?”

“Pretty fucking amazing.”

Smiling faintly, I roll back to face him. “It’s also another way to bind you. It’s just a theory. But it makes sense to me. Especially because it doesn’t make your instincts tell you to run away. It actually fits the legend of Fenrir being tied.” I frown a little, my fingers tracing the matching expression on Ethan’s mouth. “It’s kind of a sad story, really. And horrible.”

His face softens. “Tell me.”

“Well, Odin and the other Norse gods bring Fenrir home with them when he’s just a cub. Pretty much all of the gods are scared of him, and they all know that he’ll only get stronger as he gets bigger. And Odin has these visions where Fenrir kills him and basically brings about an apocalypse.”

“So that’s why they decide to bind him?”

“Yeah. But Fenrir’s not stupid. Because they kept asking him to pit his strength against thicker and thicker chains, but he keeps breaking them. So when they bring Gleipnir, and it’s just this fine gossamer thing, he’s suspicious. He’s like, ‘There’s a trick here and you guys are going to betray me.’ And they’re all, ‘No way, we wouldn’t do that.’ So Fenrir says, ‘Okay, I’ll do it if one of you puts your hand in my mouth. And if I can’t get free, I’m going to bite your hand off.’ So most of the gods were all, ‘Hahaha, no. I’m not sacrificing my hand.’”

“Most of them?”

I nod. “Because there’s one god, Tyr, who had never been afraid of Fenrir. He played with him as a cub, fed him. And of all the gods, Tyr was the one that Fenrir considered a friend. So when Tyr steps up and puts his hand in Fenrir’s mouth…”

“The wolf believed that he wouldn’t be tricked. Not by his friend.”

“Yes. And he did bite off Tyr’s hand as soon as he realized the truth. But Tyr believed sacrificing his hand was worth saving the world.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Maybe not. And really, Tyr didn’t exactly lie to Fenrir. He didn’t betray the bargain they made—”

“Just their friendship and the wolf’s trust,” Ethan says dryly.

“Right? And here’s the kicker—Fenrir is so pissed off, so angry, that’s when he vows to kill Odin and end the world. So the whole reason the gods decide to bind him is because Odin has these visions of Fenrir killing him. But the reason Fenrir decides to kill him is because the gods bind him.”

“Sounds like Fenrir got the shit end of the stick there.”

I laugh at that understatement. “Both ends of that stick were covered in shit. But Fenrir will kill Odin, someday. After he gets free, and during the end of the world.”

“Hold up.” Ethan’s eyes narrow. “Jonas is looking through that silver mine right now, hoping to find this Gleipnir. And you’re thinking that if Gleipnir is destroyed, all the corrupt magic in that silver will vanish, too. But are you telling me now that if we blow up this magical rope, we’ll free some wolf god and start an apocalypse?”

Giggling, I shake my head. “I doubt it. I was just pointing out that if the silver affected me, too, it makes sense that you wouldn’t necessarily distrust that scent. Because that whole story is more about trust and betrayal and sacrifice than it is about a gossamer rope.”

“So your scent is the lure drawing me in. Then your rings take me down.”

“Well…yeah.”

He grins. “That sounds like a good way to die.”

I laugh, then go quiet as Ethan suddenly tilts his head—listening.

After a second, he says, “Just Jonas driving back up to the house.”

“You think he had any luck?”

“If he did, he was quiet about it. Though he says the dogs won’t even go near some crawlspace you went through once, so he wants to find someone who can take a look in there, because he won’t fit.”

I gape at him. “You heard him say that right now?”

Ethan starts shaking with laughter against me. “Maybe I could if he yelled it. No, that’s something he mentioned earlier this morning.”

“Oh.”

His gaze searches mine. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No.” I sigh. “He was probably worried that if he said anything about the…” My chest cinches tight all at once, making it hard to breathe, but I try to push through it. “About the…”

“About the crawlspace, yeah.” Ethan catches my face in his big hands, gently says, “You’re all right here. You’re safe here, Makena.”

With him. I know it. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on taking long, deep breaths, listening to the sound of the river. After what feels like a long time, I whisper, “Sorry.”

“Don’t you say sorry. We’re all scared of something.”

“Like hanging your feet off the bed?”

“If werewolves are real, don’t you think those monsters under the bed might be, too?”

Giggling, I turn my face against his shoulder, and he brings me in tight. I sigh against his skin. “I wish I could go in there and help him look. I hate being afraid of anything.”

“I’m guessing you aren’t afraid of much.”

“A lot of things, lately.” Of losing Ethan. Of losing Jonas. Of making decisions that hurt the people around me. “But before this, the only thing I was afraid of was Rebecca Bird.”

“What bird?”

“The salon owner in town.” I grin out of habit, because this has been a longstanding joke between me and my friends…except it really isn’t a joke. “She’s actually this really sweet lady. And my mom used to order all of our beauty products through her shop, because good luck finding them at the grocery. And after my mom was— Well, she always trimmed my hair here at home. So after…”

“You figured you’d try the salon.”

I nod, my throat constricting into a tight knot. “Rebecca butchered it. Because she just had no idea what to do with hair like mine. And she felt terrible, but I… That was the first time my claustrophobia kicked in. Not even in a closed up space. Just sitting in that chair, with that black cape around my shoulders, staring into the mirror. And realizing, really realizing for the first time, that my mama was never coming home. Because even though I heard what happened to them, it didn’t seem real. Not after being down there in the dark for so long. But there… there in that fucking chair… Fuck.”

I sit up, the dock rocking beneath the sudden movement, and stare out across the river through a blur of tears. Behind me, Ethan presses a warm kiss to my bare shoulder, as if telling me that he’s there if I need him.

I think I always will.

“We were coming here that day,” I tell him on a shuddering breath. “Out to the swimming hole. We saddled up the horses, because Jonas was gone and they needed the exercise. We were almost here when the horses spooked. I didn’t see anything around to scare them, but Mama…she told me to ride for the silver mine as fast as I could, and they’d be right behind. And they were.”

I pause, sniffling, wiping my cheeks. “It was all so confusing then, but since I’ve learned… Obviously she knew it was a berserker or one of the wolfkin. And probably guessed the mine might be safe. Because she was yelling at me to go in.”

“So you did,” Ethan says, his voice raw.

“Yeah. And I don’t know if they just didn’t make it—or maybe if they stopped and tried to talk to the berserkers. Because I did hear them talking to someone. Not that I could make out what they were saying. But I heard them. Then my mother was screaming for me to hide. Then she was just screaming. And that crawlspace was so narrow. Even my dad couldn’t have squeezed in after me, so I figured nothing else could either. It seemed safe.”

“But you were stuck there in that crawlspace?”

“No. Not there.” I draw a juddering breath, lean back against his solid chest. Immediately his arms come around my waist to hold me close. “It dropped me into a bigger chamber. I was crawling through and then…just fell out. And I was panicking and crying, but I wasn’t scared of being in there. Not then. Because there was also a little light. Sunlight that managed to bounce its way back there, I guess. Not enough to really see by, but…not completely dark yet. By night it was, though. And I just kept waiting for one of them to start calling for me. Because I knew…I knew they were gone. But I didn’t really want to admit it.”

“Ah, Makena.” His arms tighten around me, his voice ragged. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Me, too. “I don’t think I really started losing it until the next day. Or maybe it was two days. Just imagining all kinds of shit. Like I could hear mice or some other little animals scratching around, and I think I spent as much time imagining that I would befriend them and send them out to get help as I spent imagining them eating me. And then there was… I don’t know what it was. Some big animal that died in that chamber, I guess. Because I could make out the skeleton, but the way it was curled up, it looked like this huge, bony spider. So that was okay when there was a little light, because I could watch to make sure it didn’t move. But as soon as it got dark…”

Ethan’s fingers lace through mine and gently squeeze. “Sounds damn terrifying.”

“It was.” And I haven’t talked about any of this in so long, haven’t deliberately dredged up everything I saw and felt. Usually I’m trying to push those memories away. Especially the memory of that bony spider. Thinking about it now, a violent shudder wracks my body, and Ethan’s arm tightens again. “I don’t really remember Jonas yelling for me, though I must have answered. And I don’t remember Rachel Rudder getting in there with a rope so they could pull me out. But I’m always surprised that it was only three days. It felt so much longer. And—”

Looking down at our entwined fingers, I break off, my breath catching hard in my throat.

Behind me, Ethan stiffens. His claws sharpen, as if an unseen threat caused my sudden tension. “Makena?”

“It’s okay,” I reassure him—though if he hears the frantic pounding of my heart, he probably doesn’t believe it. “I just realized it wasn’t a dead animal.”

“What wasn’t?”

“That giant bony spider.” And I can almost see it so clearly now, the skeletal fingers that curled like a spider’s legs. “I don’t think Gleipnir’s in the mine, Ethan. I think Tyr’s hand is.”

He seems confused for about a second. “The hand that Fenrir bit off?”

“Yeah.” Suddenly I laugh. “And I think we should blow it up.”

20

ETHAN

GROWING UP, I never pictured myself in a farmhouse kitchen, discussing how best to destroy the skeletal remains of a god’s hand. And although I’m willing to believe that magic is the explanation for plenty of otherwise-unexplainable occurrences, maybe I should be a bit more skeptical regarding the eleven-year-old memories of a traumatized girl, who couldn’t even see properly in that dark chamber. Especially as those memories came on the heels of her telling me that story about Fenrir, so the thought of Tyr’s hand was fresh in her mind and easy to mix up with those old fears.

But I’m not skeptical. I don’t know if she’s right, but a god’s hand seems as reasonable an explanation as any other.

When she takes her new theory to Jonas, her uncle doesn’t seem any more skeptical than I am. Maybe it’s because she told him long ago about that bony spider. Maybe it’s because the dogs are reacting to something beyond that crawlspace.

Whatever his reason, Jonas simply nods thoughtfully and says, “All right. So are we going to try to destroy it, or simply close up that mine for good?”

By collapsing the entrance. Makena’s answer to that is the same as when she believed it might be Gleipnir in that mine, instead. “Maybe we can’t destroy it. But we don’t lose anything by trying first—and we might gain something, if destroying it means this silver isn’t so poisonous to Ethan.”

I’d rather have that silver out of play, too. But that silver isn’t the only danger we’re talking about here. “I can’t get anywhere near that mine, so it’s somebody else taking a risk—getting through that crawlspace, setting the charges.”

Jonas starts, “Makena’s the only one skinny enough to get through that crawlspace—”

“I can’t,” she whispers, shame burning in her scent.

“—so that’ll mean hiring someone,” Jonas finishes, giving her a look like he can’t believe she would think he would ever ask her to do it. “So I’ll make a few calls, get some professional cavers down here. Someone who can fit through. Someone who can take pictures in that chamber first, so we see what’s really down there, and who has experience with explosives. Arranging that all might take a week or two but…” He shrugs. “That hand isn’t in any hurry. And you aren’t in a hurry to leave and start hunting down this organization before then—are you, Ethan?”

Not in a hurry to leave at all. Chest aching, I shake my head.

“All right,” Jonas says. “Then I’ll get started on that. And I seem to remember that you were planning to be gone this evening. But you sure don’t look like you’re ready to head out with my niece on your arm.”

No, I don’t. I head out to the bunkhouse and make myself presentable. Makena runs upstairs to get ready—which she warned me is a process, but it sure is worth the time it takes. She comes down a while later with her black curls shining and smelling like heaven, wearing a summery dress that shows miles of sleek brown skin.

I’m the luckiest bastard in the world. My heart’s in my throat as I drive my truck into town, with her sitting right beside me, her thigh against mine. I can picture every Saturday night for the rest of our lives going like this. Talking with her over a dinner that doesn’t require her to cook or clean, meeting up with her friends for a bit, and closing out the evening by holding her against me and swaying to some country ballad on a dance floor.

But my chest aches the whole damn night, and just gets tighter as we start home. The first time I drove out to her ranch, I knew that I was setting myself up for some hurt. I knew that eventually I’d have to leave this woman and I’d rip myself apart doing it.

I don’t know why I never stopped to consider how much it might rip her up, too.

Yet that familiar pain is there in Makena’s eyes every time she looks at me now. The light of every moment we spend together. The shadow of knowing that it’ll end.

Maybe not permanently. I’ll fight the devil himself to come back to her. I’ll find those fuckers as quick as I can, make sure that Makena and our future are safe, and return straight to her arms. But not being able to make her a promise is killing me. And it’s hurting her, too.

The only relief for either of us is a different sort of pain—like the ache she begins working up with her hand as soon as we turn down the road leading to the ranch. With her fingers stroking my cock, she purrs into my ear the suggestion that we ought to pull over to the side of the road and replay our first meeting—but this time when she stops to help me out, I change into a werewolf and chase her down and claim her. And every part of me sure does like the way this woman thinks.

I pull over and shut off the engine—and hear a faint, frantic barking. Smell a wisp of smoke.

When I rip the buttons of my shirt getting out of it, Makena goes still. “Ethan?”

“Call the fire department.” Jumping out of the truck, I shove off my boots, my pants. “Get them out to the ranch. Something’s burning and the dogs are going crazy.”

Her face pales. “Uncle Jonas?”

I don’t know yet. “Drive,” I growl, and change my skin. This road follows the winding path of the river. I can go a hell of a lot faster than the truck—and in a straighter line.

Thick smoke billows out of either end of the barn. From inside comes the terrified neighs of the horses, Annabelle’s panicked lowing—and I know that if Jonas was all right, he’d already be getting them out. But I don’t hear his soothing voice amid the animals’ terror.

I tear across the yard, haul open the barn doors. Heated air swamps my face. There’s as much steam inside as smoke. Cold spray wets my fur—the barn’s sprinkler system. I swing open stall doors, but the horses are too damn confused and scared to head in the right direction, and I can’t guide them out. Not until I find Jonas. Except he doesn’t have a goddamn scent to follow.

I change my skin and shout, “Jonas!”

No answer. But the dogs lead me to him. Their barks start up again, both of them frantically dancing around the ladder at the bottom of the hayloft. I climb up into a choking haze of swirling embers and sodden hay, and almost trip over his body. Unconscious, lying face down. His heartbeat’s strong but the wet rasp of his breathing is worrying as hell. Carefully I ease him over onto his back, see his swollen face, the bloodied mouth.

He’s been beaten to fuck. And his breathing tells me that it wasn’t just his face. He was busted up inside, too.

Rage lights up my gut. But I’ll follow that later. I gather him up and carry him out of the barn just as Makena pulls into the yard, tires spitting gravel.

“Jonas!” she screams, racing toward me.

Gently I lay him on the grass, and as she falls to her knees beside his still form, I change my skin again. “It’s best not to move him any more than we have to. Grab that blanket from my truck and stay here with him. I’ll get those animals out.”

Tears spilling down her cheeks, she nods. I tell Thelma and Alf to stay with her and head back in.

The fire’s gaining ground up in the loft, but I’ll deal with that in a minute. I lead the panicking horses out to the corral, then try to lead the dairy cow, but she puts up a fight until I simply pick her up and carry her. Then I grab an extinguisher and tackle the fire up in the hayloft.

There’s still some smoldering spots when the extinguishers run out, but the worst of the danger’s past until the fire truck arrives. I return to Makena’s side. She’s sitting next to Jonas, who doesn’t sound any better or worse than when I left them. Alf is curled up against his leg. Thelma’s head is in Makena’s lap and she absently strokes the dog’s fur, her eyes lost and dripping tears.

“I should have listened to Kyle,” she whispers brokenly. “We shouldn’t have left him alone.”

Maybe not. But the reason has nothing to do with what the sheriff warned her about. “This wasn’t townsfolk,” I tell her.

Her fingers freeze on Thelma’s head. “The bearkin?”

“I’m not sure about that, either.” Because if it had been one of the kin, Jonas ought to have been torn up. But I would place bets on it being the same fucker who slaughtered part of her herd. Because he left no scent again—and instead of claws and fangs, used something else to kill. Not a sledgehammer this time, but fire. “But whoever it was probably thought Jonas would burn with that barn. They just didn’t count on the fire suppression system you’ve got installed.”

“Because it’s not the 1850s,” she snaps, helpless frustration and fear and anger swirling through her scent. “If we relied on the fire department, it’d have burned down by now. Look how fucking long it’s taking them to get here. And the ambulance. Can you even hear them?”

I nod. “About five minutes away.”

Which means I’ll need to get dressed again soon.

“Jesus.” She covers her face with her hands, her breath shuddering. “They’ll probably take him to the medical center in Kellogg.”

The next town up the highway. “You ride with him. I’ll stay here when your sheriff shows”—the friends we left only an hour ago—“and make sure everything here is settled. Then I’ll follow you.”

She nods, wiping her face. Then gives a hard laugh. “At least Jonas got some of his own in. It looks like he got a good swipe at the fucker.”

“What do you mean?”

With a lift of her chin, she gestures to a patch of grass about ten feet away. “Jonas isn’t bleeding anywhere from a wound as deep as that must have been.”

The red against green. I didn’t even see it—or smell it. But now, looking closer, I can make out the splotch of darker color against the blades of grass. And when I touch it, can see the blood against my skin.

And maybe I can’t smell it, but there’s nothing wrong with my tongue. Especially the longer, more sensitive tongue I’ve got in my wolf skin.

One taste stands the fur at the back of my neck on end. That’s familiar. That’s wolfkin blood—but not. There’s another flavor in there, a strange corrosion that I’ve never tasted before but that my instincts know exactly what it is.

Not one of the wolfkin…but one of the cursed.

21

MAKENA

BETWEEN THE SMOKE and the crying, my eyes are red and my throat aching as Kyle drives me home.

“We’ll be quick,” he reassures me for about the tenth time, but this time he adds, “You should try to sleep before you go back.”

I don’t answer, though I know he’s right. It’s ten o’clock on Sunday morning and I haven’t slept since I woke up yesterday. And despite the amount of coffee I drank while Jonas was in surgery—only minor internal bleeding, thank god—now exhaustion drags at me with every breath. And Jonas is fine. Or stable, at least. Carrie’s sitting with him now, but he’s sedated and won’t wake for hours yet. So I should rest while I can. I just can’t imagine sleeping. Not until we know who did this.

And we will know, as soon as Jonas wakes up.

For now, I close my eyes and lean back the seat until we arrive at the ranch. Another county vehicle is parked in front of the barn. Either the fire inspectors or forensics. Ethan’s truck is pulled up beside mine, but this time of day, he’s probably down at the other end of the pasture, moving the herd. He was with me at the medical center most of the night, then returned here just after dawn. The cow needed to be milked, the animals needed to be fed. Life still goes on at the ranch, even when the whole world crashes down around the people who own it. Since the dogs don’t come running up to me, I assume they’re with Ethan.

“So I just want you to go in, look around,” Kyle tells me as we head through the back entrance. “See if anything’s missing from inside the house.”

Because Ethan already accounted for all of the equipment outside and in the barn. Last night, it didn’t even occur to me to look in the house. I simply left in the ambulance with Jonas. But apparently, whatever happened started in the house.

And I braced myself for a horror, for blood and maybe worse, but in the kitchen there’s just a few toppled chairs and shattered Mason jars. I stay at the edge of the room, where Kyle tells me to stand so that I don’t disturb any of the evidence.

“Judging by the blood on Jonas’s hand and out in the yard, we figure Jonas must have cut him or stabbed him. But we don’t know what the weapon was yet. Do any knives seem to be missing?”

Yes. But not from here. “It would have been his silver knife,” I tell him, and measure with my hands. “About this long, a carved wooden handle, a straight blade.”

And it can kill cursed werewolves.

Or Ethan.

Kyle makes a note. “Anything else jump out at you?”

“No.”

Not until we reach the library. I stop in the doorway and stare at the empty shelves, my stomach hollowing out. “My father’s notebooks.”

“What?”

“His research. All his research.” I cup my palm over my trembling lips, my vision blurring in a rush of loss and grief. “It’s gone.”

“What was it about?”

“His novel,” I lie, my voice raw.

“That werewolf story we used to talk about with him all those years ago?” Kyle asks, eyebrows lifting.

I’d forgotten about that. But probably all my close friends who ever visited my house regularly knew what my dad was working on. “Yeah.”

He frowns. “Was the book finished? Would someone take it to publish, maybe?”

“No,” I say hoarsely. “It was just…lots of notes.” And such a huge part of what I had left of him.

But it doesn’t make any sense. We’d originally thought the attack on the herd was one of the bearkin, trying to exact revenge for my uncle getting his own revenge for my parents. But Ethan’s certain that blood was from a werewolf—someone who’d been bitten and cursed. Someone who I can’t imagine having any connection to us at all.

If it’s someone who’s been cursed, I can easily understand why they might want the notebooks. But how would that person even know to take them? How could he know what was in them?

And if he’s also the one who opened up the silver mine, how could he know anything about that?

But I can’t ask Kyle any of these questions. Only look through the rest of the house, where nothing else seems to have been touched.

Ethan is returning from the pasture when we finish up and head out through the front door. With eyes like golden embers, he strides straight onto the porch and wraps his arms around me, holding me close. I bury my face in his chest and tell him, “They took my father’s notebooks.”

He stiffens slightly against me. Just as confused by that as I am. But he only presses a kiss to the top of my head and asks, “How’s Jonas?”

“The same,” I tell him on a little sobbing breath.

Kyle fills in, “They’re pretty sure he has a concussion from all the blows to the head, so they don’t want to keep him under too long. So they’re easing up on the sedatives and hoping he’ll come around by this evening.”

“All right.” Ethan steps back, cupping my face in his hands, his eyes searching mine. “Did you get any sleep?”

I shake my head.

“Your room or the bunkhouse?” He gives me two options, and not sleeping isn’t one of them.

Kyle takes one of those options away. “I’d like to get forensics to finish up in here first. We’ve got the blood outside, but I want them to sweep for fingerprints in the house. As soon as Jonas wakes up and identifies him, we’ll tie this asshole up tight, Makena.”

“Bunkhouse, then,” Ethan says, then looks to Kyle. “Have you got someone guarding him at the hospital?”

“A deputy at the door. But I figure that the only option this asshole has is to run. When Jonas wakes up, he can point a finger. Yet if this asshole shows up there and tries to do anything to Jonas before he can identify him, there’s too many people to see him. He’ll be identified either way. I think he’ll cut his losses and run.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I wouldn’t have left my wife in the same room with Jonas if I wasn’t pretty damn sure that she’d be safe there.”

“Fair enough.” His amber gaze meets mine again. “You go rest, and we’ll head back there when you wake up. All right?”

Considering that I’m already drooping in his arms, I nod. “A few minutes,” I agree.

I PANIC when I wake up and see the time. Late afternoon.

Scrambling out of Ethan’s bed, I grab one of his big T-shirts and haul it over my head, then run outside. Ethan’s in the corral, spreading ointment over a filly’s singed flank. The county vehicles are gone. The horrible acrid smell of smoke still lingers everywhere.

He sees me coming, and before I can say a word, he calls out, “He’s still sleeping. Not even stirring yet. So as soon as you’re dressed, we’ll drive over.”

My heart settles down. Standing outside the corral fence, I take a second to look around. From the outside of the barn, I can’t see much damage except for around the doors, where the smoke stained the paint. I’m afraid to even look inside.

Ethan always reads me so easily. “It’s not that bad,” he reassures me. “Some water damage and smoke damage, but nothing structural. And you lost a couple tons of hay.”

Only what was in the loft. We have tons and tons more stored in the hay barns.

So it could have been a lot worse. I know that. Still, my too-ready tears fill my eyes again. “I should have sold the place when Rudder did. If I had, Jonas wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed right now—and I wouldn’t have almost lost him.”

“Maybe that’s true. Or maybe whoever this fucker is would have followed you somewhere else. And then I wouldn’t be here to help you.” Reaching through the corral fence, he pulls me close, kisses me softly. “He’ll be fine, Makena. The barn will be fine. And as soon as we know who this fucker is, we’ll get those notebooks back. You won’t have lost anything. All right?”

I nod, sniffling, then rise up to kiss him again—a kiss so soft and sweet and strong, like the comfort he offers so readily.

Comfort…and protection. I know he hears something by the way his mouth goes still against mine. He lifts his head, staring toward the road.

“Someone’s heading this way?”

“Yeah. I don’t recognize the engine.” Bracing his hand on the top rail, he easily vaults out of the corral. “But they’re coming in a real fucking hurry.”

Because it’s the UPS guy. As soon as the brown truck comes into view, I start giggling in what feels like the first time in forever. Ethan grins, too. And since I’m only wearing one of his old white T-shirts—which hangs halfway down my thighs but the thin fabric does almost nothing to conceal my tits—he heads out to meet the driver.

He returns carrying a small package stamped with a pretty floral pattern. My laughter dies as I realize what’s in it.

“Makena?” His tone goes sharp. “What’s the matter? Is this something you weren’t expecting—or it means something to you? Who sent it?”

Fingers tipped with claws, he turns the package over as if thinking someone sent me a body part in it.

And I guess they did. Because my heart’s wrapped up in that little package.

“I ordered it,” I tell him hoarsely. “It’s Aidan’s weed.”

A frown darkens his face as he looks the package over again. “The flower that takes away scent?”

“Yes. If it’s made into a tea.”

He goes still. “And who’s going to be drinking this tea?”

“Me.” I draw a ragged breath and force the rest out. “So that when you have to leave…without my scent pulling on you, it’ll be easier for you to go.”

Eyes burning gold, he stares at me for a long, long second. Then he shrugs, holds out the package for me to take. “All right. Why don’t you go ahead and make that tea right now.”

Pain rips through my chest. A hot lump fills my throat as I take the package with numb fingers. I thought I’d have to fight him on this. He’s told me so many times how much he loved my scent.

But if he can so effortlessly give up a part of me that he loves, how easily will he give up all the rest?

Blinded by tears, I turn toward the house.

“Makena.” His tone is hard and flat and halts me in my tracks. “You make sure to bring a real sharp knife out here when you’re done drinking that tea.”

What? I glance back, and my heart stops. Because he’s looking at me—he’s looking at me—and the harsh pain on his face matches the agony tearing through my chest.

“You bring a knife,” he repeats with crushed gravel in his voice. “So that when you’re done cutting off my nose, you can gouge out my eyes, so I’ll never again see your smile or the sun shining through your hair. Then you better start in on my ears, so I can’t hear you laugh or that sound you make in your throat when I’m kissing you. And don’t forget to slice out my tongue, so I can’t taste your sweetness or tell you how damn amazing you are. Then you’ll need to chop off my fingers—or better yet, just flay every inch of my skin—so I can’t ever feel you against me again. Maybe after all that, it’ll be easy to go.”

My tears spill over, and I shake my head. “Ethan—”

Except he’s not done. Stepping closer, he growls softly, “But it still wouldn’t be. So you’d have to get to my brain, just scoop it out, because I damn well know there’s no woman in the world for me but you, and that your scent doesn’t have a fucking thing to do with it. And when you’re finished with that…” He captures my hand, brings it to his chest, where a thundering beat pounds beneath my palm. “You make sure to carve out my heart, Makena. Because as long as it’s beating, I will love you. I’ll love you so much that leaving will always kill me.”

Sobbing, I launch myself into his arms. He catches me and clutches me close, and I whisper brokenly against his neck, “I love you, too.”

“Then you damn well know that nothing in this world will make leaving easy,” he says hoarsely, his face buried in my hair. “And if my being here didn’t bring danger to you and any family we might have, I’d never go. But I’ll find them fast, now I know what I’m looking for. And I swear to you, Makena, I’ll fight to my last breath to come back to you.”

“You have to.” I pull back, catch his face in my hands, seeing everything he feels burning in his eyes and praying he can see the same in mine. “You have to.”

“I will.”

“And you have to marry me before you go.”

“I wi—” He goes still. His throat works, then he says gruffly, “Are you asking me?”

“No. I’m telling you.”

His mouth crashes down on mine, and I take that as a ‘yes.’ Smiling, laughing, I hold on tight and kiss him with all the love I have in me.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes gleam with a hot amber light. “I’m gonna give you so many babies.”

My inner muscles clench in response to the hunger in his voice, but I better lay this out from the get-go. “Maybe just two. Or three.”

“All right. However many you want will be the perfect number. But I’ll practice at least a hundred thousand times.” Happiness deepens his voice and he kisses me again. “I have so goddamn much to come back for.”

Longing pierces my joy. “I wish I could go with you,” but he’s already shaking his head, and he doesn’t have to explain why. He’s leaving to assure our future, and our family’s future—and his very right to live. So I’ll stay, and assure the other part of our future. The one I’ve imagined so many times with him here. With a sigh, I hold him tighter.

After another kiss, he sets me down. “All right. You run and get dressed, and we’ll go see your uncle.”

I nod, but his hands tighten on mine before I can walk away.

“You don’t leave my side until tomorrow morning,” he tells me, but it’s not just a romantic declaration. “Tonight’s the full moon…and there’s a cursed werewolf on the loose. One I can’t smell or track.”

“I’ll stay close,” I promise.

22

ETHAN

AS WE ENTER the medical center, I can hear the commotion Jonas is causing in his room even before Makena’s phone buzzes with a text.

“Oh shit,” she says, reading it. “Carrie says he’s trying to leave.”

We hightail it to his room, where a nurse is glaring daggers at the old man struggling to sit up, while Kyle and Carrie hover around him, trying to convince him to calm down.

“We gotta blow that goddamn mine!” he tells them—then looks relieved when Makena goes rushing in,

Until she tells him, “You don’t move from that bed! You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

He shakes his head at her. “It’s gotta be done. You can’t do it. He can’t do it”—he gestures to me—“so I’m the only one.”

“Why the sudden rush?” Makena asks. “I thought we talked about this.”

The old man’s jaw hardens and he eyes Kyle. “I want to talk to my family alone.”

“Not going to happen,” Kyle says. “Not until I get a name.”

“You don’t want to go anywhere near this person.” Lips thinning, Jonas glances at the nurse. “How about you clear out this room? Then I’ll just sit and talk to myself.”

Where I can still hear him, I realize. So he’ll tell me who it was…and then I’ll go handle the fucker.

But the nurse shakes her head. “If I leave this room, are you all going to keep him in that bed?”

There’s a chorus of affirmation from the others, which leaves Jonas looking disgusted but satisfies her.

“All right, then. You settle down,” she tells him and heads for the door. “And you cooperate with our nice sheriff, or me and the other nurses will start treating you bad.”

And this is another time when everyone here seems to be familiar with one another, I realize. Not just Makena and Jonas and Kyle and Carrie, but the nurse, too.

But I’m not familiar with her. At least not enough to do anything more in front of her. So as she leaves, I stand in front of the door, making sure it won’t open again. Jonas begins grumbling, and for a minute there’s just an argument with him on one side and the three younger friends on the other.

Then Carrie sucks in a breath and asks, “Makena…is there a reason your employee is taking his clothes off?”

“He’s not my employee anymore. I fired him the first time he stripped in front of me,” she replies easily, but I can read the question and worry in her eyes.

“I just want to answer a whole slew of questions as quick as I can,” I tell her. “And because if Jonas is dead set on closing that mine, we’re going to need their help. So it’s just better to get past this now.”

Swallowing nervously, she nods—the looks to Carrie and Kyle. “So. You guys. Ethan’s going to change into a werewolf, and he’ll seem really scary, but he’s really gentle as a lamb.”

I snort. “And because when we’re married, this isn’t the kind of thing you’ll want to keep from your best friends, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

Carrie looks surprised, then confused, as if she’s not sure where the joke is supposed to be. Kyle just watches me. Since his hand isn’t anywhere near his gun yet and I’m naked in front of them, I figure this might go over pretty well.

“Try not to scream,” I tell them. “And if you’re the fainting type…well, you should probably hold onto something.”

Kyle reaches out and holds onto his wife’s hand. Crouching, I glance at Makena.

And change into my wolf skin.

They don’t faint. Carrie gives a muffled shriek, and jumps backward, fear leaping through her scent. Kyle draws her behind him, gaze skimming me from pointed ears to clawed feet.

Makena watches them both, her face tense with worry.

Finally Kyle says, “I knew there was something off about you.” He looks to Makena. “So this means all that stuff your dad was writing about, those notebooks that were stolen—”

“It wasn’t for a book,” she says softly.

Carrie’s widened gaze jerks from me to Makena and back again, some of her fear easing, her brow furrowing. “That was real?”

“It was.”

And I figure that’s enough show and tell. Changing back, I start pulling on my jeans. “Now, there’s a whole lot that won’t be real clear for a while, but this way you both know we all aren’t crazy. So, Jonas—you want to tell us who did this?”

“Luc Fauconnier.”

Makena gapes at him. “Are you serious?”

Carrie echoes that, while Kyle looks grim as hell.

Jonas nods and gestures to his battered face. “He recognized me. Or thought he did. I look a lot like your dad.”

Makena’s brow furrows. “Dad? How did he know him?”

“From before.”

Ah, fuck. “You’re saying Fauconnier was in that organization of hunters?” I ask.

“More than that. He’s the one they were running away from.”

Makena begins shaking her head. “How? He must have been like…fifteen years old when they left it.”

“I’m guessing he’s closer to my age, actually. I told you they were messing with occult shit. Or maybe he just ages well.”

As if staggered, Makena sits down hard on the edge of his bed. I’m reeling a bit myself. Because I’d been ready to leave soon so these hunters would never find her…yet they’re already at her door. Carrie and Kyle aren’t saying much, just look as if they’re desperately trying to keep up. But in the short silence that falls, Carrie asks tentatively, “So, Makena…your parents…?”

“Were werewolf hunters.” She puffs out a breath, lifts her hands as if to say, Who could have guessed?

“No, I mean…” Her friend looks stricken. “The way they were killed—was that…?”

“Oh.” Makena closes her eyes. “Yeah. Not really a bear.”

“So it was someone like—” Carrie’s gaze darts to me and away. “And all this time, did you know?”

Swallowing hard, Makena shakes her head. “Not until recently.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Carrie goes to her, hugs her close. “Are you okay?”

For a second, Makena clings to her, and her voice is thick as she says, “No. And yes.” She draws a deep breath, pulls back and holds Carrie’s hands. “We’ll have a drink in a day or two and I’ll tell you everything. Okay?”

Carrie nods. From behind her, Kyle focuses in on me. “What organization of hunters are you talking about?”

“Of werewolf hunters,” Makena says, but Jonas adds, “Though it seems like they aren’t much of an organization anymore.”

All my swirling thoughts settle down and my attention sharpens again. “What do you mean?”

The old man gives a rusty laugh, then grimaces as if it hurt him. “Well, we figured that attack on the herd was some kind of revenge. And we were wrong about that. He had no clue who me and Makena were until he saw me. But what he did to me? Yeah. He wanted to make damn sure I knew why. And that was revenge for sure.”

Anger tightens Makena’s lips. “Revenge against you? For what?”

“Against your parents. But they aren’t around so I was the next best thing, considering that I helped them escape him.” He coughs, and Carrie hands him a glass of water. “Thank you, mayor. Now, it seems that there was one of the wolfkin that they’d been doing some testing on, and that Mikael and Halima set free when they left. So Fauconnier and the others hunted him down again—but without that poisoned silver to fight with, the wolf killed almost all of them before Fauconnier took it down. He was the only one to survive.”

“But he got bit,” I realize.

“He did. And it just made him even more convinced that all of your kind needed to be eradicated. Because you’re all dangerous and could spread the disease.”

Makena shakes her head, her anger heating her scent. “Because he tortured someone, and they fought back, somehow that makes them the dangerous person?”

“Logic and fear are never good bedfellows,” he reminds her, then continues, “So he’s got renewed faith in his crusade but he needs more silver, yeah? And he goes looking for it the same way Mikael did. He formed MDC and used it to continue his hunts for both the wolves and the silver. So when he came across a piece of tainted jewelry, he looked for where it came from. He didn’t find out exactly which mine, but he did narrow it down to a region. That’s why MDC moved in to Fortune City. So he could start looking.”

“Silver?” Kyle asks. “That’s why you were trying to get out of here—to blow up your silver mine?”

Jonas nods. “He thought it was real funny that for two years he’d been trying to get us to sell, not knowing who the hell we were—or that the mine on our land was the one Mikael found all those years ago. Finally he got tired of asking and went to go see for himself if the mine was even worth all the effort they were putting into trying to buy it.”

I fucking knew it. “The night he killed so much of the herd?”

“That’s right. And now he wants what is in there, so he can pull it out and make as much of that silver as he wants. He doesn’t know what’s down there, because I wouldn’t tell him. But he knows it’s something. And he overheard me making calls, looking for someone to get into that crawlspace.” He looks to me. “That’s why we’ve got to close it up now. He’s likely going to try to get in there as fast as he can.”

“He can’t get in there himself,” Makena points out. “He’s too big. He’ll have to hire someone.”

“Maybe someone like Charlie Langerman and his friends?” Kyle suggests. “He’ll get them to retrieve whatever this thing is…then maybe tie up loose ends.”

By killing the three men. Apparently Kyle and Jonas have the same impression of Fauconnier. I don’t know whether they’re right. But Fauconnier has to be stopped.

Yet there’s still something else I need to know. “Did he say whether he killed my family?”

Jonas shakes his head. “I don’t know. And I was too busy trying to figure out how to stay alive to ask.”

It doesn’t matter. I’ll ask him myself. To Kyle, I say, “Can you handle dynamite?”

“What?” Makena looks at me wide-eyed. “You’re going out there tonight?”

“It seems the best time. Unless everything Fauconnier believes about werewolves spreading their disease is a lie, he’ll be careful to lock himself up tonight. So it might be the one time we could do it without running the risk of him showing up with those silver bullets and that silver knife. Because if he comes at me with those…I might be in real trouble.”

Makena’s face goes pale and tense. “But Kyle can’t get through that crawlspace. So you’ll only be able to close the mine. Not destroy the hand.”

“We can’t be sure destroying it would take the magic out of the silver, anyway. But blowing that entrance is a sure thing. And maybe only a temporary fix, but we can shore it up after I kill him.”

The sheriff only blinks once at that. “I’ll help you with the dynamite. Carrie and Makena, you stay here with Jonas and—”

Makena stands. “I’m going with you. But, yeah—Carrie, if you could stay with my uncle, I’d appreciate it.” She tugs the ring off her pinky finger. “And wear this. Just in case we’re wrong and he comes after Jonas, after all.”

Taking it all in stride, her friends accepts the ring and says, “Okay, but what do I—”

“If he comes, you grab his bare skin with that on your finger,” Makena says. “Then you hang on while Jonas does the rest.”

Carrie nods. “Will do.”

Then Makena glances at me, her eyes bright, and it suddenly settles in—the organization of hunters is gone. There’s just Fauconnier. So if we kill him…I’ll never have to leave her.

But I have to kill him first. And it sure as hell doesn’t look as if that’s going to be easy.

23

MAKENA

ON THE RIDE HOME, I hold tight to Ethan’s hand all the way. I know he would rather that I stayed at the hospital, but I need to see this through. I don’t have to explain that to him, though. Because he needs to see a few things through, himself.

Kyle’s right behind us. Our first stop is at the yard, where Ethan heads to the bunkhouse to get the dynamite he stole from the MDC site and a roll of fuse. I run into the house to let the dogs out for a few minutes. While they’re taking care of business, I head into the workshop to grab a few things, then meet Ethan and Kyle at my truck.

Kyle isn’t in his sheriff’s uniform, but he buckled on his duty belt and holsters—maybe not quite trusting that Fauconnier will lock himself up. He eyes the case that Ethan’s carrying. “You know how to handle that shit?”

“I do. Had some explosives training in the army, and since I knew we might be using this in the mine soon, I put myself through a refresher course online.”

“And it’s stable?”

“These modern dynamite sticks? Yeah. The blasting caps I’ve got in this bag are a bit more volatile, but as long as we aren’t banging on them with hammers, they’ll be all right, too.”

“Good to know.” Kyle looks to me. “You got everything you need?”

Nodding, I glance at Thelma and Alf, who’ve already jumped into the bed of the truck, ready to go. “Can you tell them to stay here? There’s no way that being around that blast will be good for their ears.”

And although I snagged some noise-deadening safety earmuffs from the workshop, I don’t have anything for the dogs. With a few words, Ethan sends them back to the house, where they lie down on the porch and pout. Kyle hops up into the back of the truck; Ethan does the same, then taps on the window to let me know they’re ready. I start off—and no matter what Ethan says about that dynamite being stable, I drive more slowly through my pasture than I normally would, wincing with every dip and bump.

The full moon is rising over the eastern hills as I park as near to the silver mine as the terrain allows, about fifty feet away from the entrance. And as I’m slinging the long coil of rope that I grabbed from the workshop over my shoulder, I tell them what I plan to do.

“I’m going through the crawlspace,” I say with more solid determination than I feel. My hands are already trembling, my heart fluttering wildly in my chest. “So I can destroy Tyr’s hand and neutralize that poisonous silver.”

Ethan immediately begins shaking his head. “No fucking way. Just talking about that crawlspace does you in, Makena. So—”

Goddammit. “I’m not losing you!” I shout over him. “So I’ll be terrified, yeah. I’ll panic, yeah. But I will do this and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do or say to stop me, because you can’t follow me into the fucking mine!”

His voice goes ragged. “Makena—”

“And because I love you,” I add softly, my breath shuddering. “So I can do this.”

His jaw clenches, and in the next second he pulls me against his chest. Voice harsh in my ear, he tells me, “I could stop you here.”

I know he could. Swallowing hard, I wait.

“All right,” he says thickly, and desperately kisses my mouth. “But be careful. And you”—he spears Kyle with a look—“you help her.”

“Of course,” he says.

“All right, then. So we’ll make sure this goes off without a single hitch.” His face hardening with resolve, Ethan steps away to reach into the back of the truck. “If we’re just blowing the hand, you don’t need more than a single stick of dynamite. Because if that doesn’t do it, there’s a good chance nothing will destroy that thing. Then we’ll just blow the entrance, instead.”

He hands Kyle the roll of fuse, then unwinds one end and reaches into his bag for a blasting cap—which doesn’t look anything like what I imagined. Instead of a flat round cap, it’s a thin cylinder with one hollow end and one pointed end, resembling a metal pencil that’s missing its eraser.

Ethan sticks the fuse into the hollow end of the cylinder and crimps it around the fuse cord by pinching the metal between his fingers. “This is safety fuse, which means that after it’s lit, the fire will take about thirty seconds to burn through twelve inches of fuse. How long is that crawlspace, Makena?”

My heart’s pounding so hard that blood’s rushing dizzily through my head. “About…eight feet, maybe?”

And feels like a million miles.

“How far from the crawlspace to the hand?”

“Another six or seven feet.”

“Plus the extra distance you’ll need to string it down the wall from the crawlspace opening and along the floor. Good. That means it’ll be a long damn time from the moment you ignite the fuse to when the dynamite blows. So you’ll take this”—he holds up the blasting cap with the fuse attached to one end—“through that crawlspace with you, stringing the fuse along behind, with Kyle doling out all the length you need. Once you get to the hand, you’ll stab this blasting cap into the end of this dynamite stick, tuck it up under the bones, and head back through the crawlspace. Once you’re clear, you can light the fuse and we’ll have a good ten minutes or more to get as far away from that mine as we want to get. Yeah?”

Be far away from exploding dynamite? Easiest thing I ever agreed to. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” The hoarse edge to that reply tells me that he’s still not completely on board with this plan, but he doesn’t argue anymore. Instead he just makes sure I’m as safe as he can. “How are you getting out of that chamber once you’re inside?”

I hold up the rope. “I’ll give one end to Kyle. Once I’m in the chamber, the opening to the crawlspace is in the wall, and only a little bit over my head. I should be able to hold onto this and climb up—and if I have trouble, he can help by pulling from his end.”

“You got a light to see with?”

I turn my big halogen flashlight on and off. Kyle does the same with the Maglite in his duty belt.

“But speaking of light…” Kyle tucks his flashlight away. “What do we light the fuse with? Did we bring matches?”

Ethan’s face goes blank. “Ah, shit.”

I start to giggle.

He looks to Kyle, who shakes his head and observes, “Who carries a cigarette lighter anymore?”

“A lighter is a shit way to ignite a safety fuse, anyway. Goddammit. You got anything in your truck?”

I begin shaking my head, then realize— “What about emergency road flares?”

“That’ll do fine. They’ll work a hell of a lot better than a lighter would.”

Road flares it is, then. I head to the cab of my truck, where the flares are stored behind the seat with my emergency kit. I slide two of those into a bag, then head back to where Kyle and Ethan are waiting. I take the yellow dynamite stick that Ethan holds out, carefully slide the explosive into the same bag. The blasting cap, I give over to Kyle, who is still holding the roll of fuse it’s attached to. Until we get into the mine and I need to go through that crawlspace, it’s probably better to keep the dynamite and blasting cap apart.

I draw in a deep breath. “I think we’re all set, then.”

Ethan closes his eyes, as if he wishes there was something that would convince me not to do this. Then mutters, “Fuck.”

Then he kisses me—and kisses me again. Until his mouth stills against my lips.

Abruptly his head comes up, his eyes glowing fiercely. “Makena…get into that mine. Right now.”

An icy claw of terror rips up my spine. Because I’ve heard those words before. “Ethan?”

“He’s driving up the road this way.”

Kyle’s voice sharpens. “Fauconnier is?”

“You’re sure it’s not the UPS guy?” I try to make it a joke but my voice is thin and wavering.

“I’m sure. Unless someone else would be driving one of MDC’s company rigs and not bothering with their headlights,” Ethan says, peering out into the dark. Then he suddenly glances upward, as if to verify that the moon is high and full.

The moon is high and full. “But…isn’t he cursed? How is he driving if he’s a mindless beast?”

“Maybe he found some magical cure for the full moon, too. It doesn’t matter.” Gripping my arm, he steers me toward Kyle. “You both go and get inside the mine. You don’t come out for anything—and don’t you do a damn thing to that hand and make that mine useless to protect you—unless I tell you he’s dead.”

Horror twists in my gut. Because maybe Tyr’s hand is why Ethan and Fauconnier can’t get near the mine. But if we don’t neutralize it, the silver isn’t neutralized, either. Ethan would be trapped outside the safety of the mine, exposed…and an easy target for those silver bullets.

“Ethan, you can’t fight him—”

“I won’t let him get to you.”

“He can’t get to me. Kyle and I will be safe inside the mine. You run.”

“Safe for how long?” He cups my face in his hands. “How long are you going to hide in there, Makena? How long will he trap you in there—until Jonas or Carrie comes out here looking for us and he gets them, too? And how long am I supposed to run?”

Sick fear sours the back of my tongue. “I don’t know. But—”

“We knew I would have to face him at some time. I’ll do it now. And end this.”

With tears clogging my throat, I nod—then head back to my truck. When I return a second later carrying my shotgun, a frown of confusion furrows his forehead, until I tell him in a shaky voice, “If he uses that silver, you can’t use your warrior form. So…maybe a gun won’t help. But if whatever he’s doing to stop the transformation weakens him, maybe a gun will hurt him enough for you to gain an advantage.”

Nodding, he bends his head. This time his kiss is long and hard, and I try to tell him everything I feel before he lifts his head. But the kiss isn’t enough, so I whisper, “I love you,” again.

And with panic and terror ripping at my every breath, I turn toward the mine. I only make it a few steps before realizing Kyle isn’t on my heels. I glance back, my heart contracting with sheer gratitude and love as I see Kyle holding out one of his handguns for Ethan to take.

“For backup,” Kyle says.

Ethan’s expression says he doesn’t know if it’ll do much good, but he thanks Kyle and sticks the gun in the back of his waistband. “Take care of her,” he says hoarsely. “And you probably can’t stop her from setting up that dynamite, but you don’t let her light that fuse. Especially if he’s taken me down. Because without the magic protecting the mine, he’ll come straight in there for you both.”

“Then you take care of her by coming through this,” Kyle replies, then turns as I yell out.

“Kyle, hurry!”

Because we don’t have much time. Ethan doesn’t have much time. Because he refuses to run and hide from what’s coming for him.

So I’m not running and hiding, either. Because for a long time, the thought of going into this old mine scared me more than anything. But there’s something that’s far more frightening—and that’s Ethan dying. And I won’t lose him.

I won’t.

24

ETHAN

I WATCH Makena run toward the mine, the scent of her fear hot in the back of my throat, with Kyle right behind her. I follow after them, getting as close as I can to the entrance—up to the point where I start feeling sick and dizzy. Close enough that I can hear them from inside.

They must not have to go in deep—and I remember Makena said that a little light from outside got through that crawlspace and into the chamber where she was trapped. But although the moon is bright and full, there won’t be any light for her in there now except for what she brings.

Makena’s rushing as fast as she can, desperate to get into that chamber and destroy that hand before Fauconnier gets close enough to start shooting. I can hear her panicked, panting breaths even over this distance, and each one threatens to rip the heart from my chest.

But I know there’s not enough time. Even now, his rig is making its way across Rudder’s pasture. By the time she gets through that crawlspace and back out…even if Fauconnier hasn’t pumped my gut full of silver by then, it’d still be another ten minutes before she could set off the dynamite.

I’ll likely be dead by then. And that’ll be all right—as long as I take Fauconnier with me. Because killing him is the only damn thing that matters. Makena is safe from him now, but Christ knows how long he might wait her and Kyle out…with Makena trapped in a nightmare of anxiety and panic. So I’ve got to make certain that it’ll be safe for them to leave that mine.

I know the second Makena gets into the crawlspace because she starts sobbing helplessly, talking herself through the panic as she scrapes into the tiny space. Her words become more muffled, but every one is telling herself that she has to do this, to help me, because she loves me and needs me and can’t lose me.

And with every muffled word, I steel myself a little more. Against the pain that’s coming. Because she’s hurrying, but he’s coming faster. Already he’s parked his SUV not far from where I tipped over Charlie Langerman’s truck.

When he gets out and starts heading this way, I get a pretty good idea of why his beast hasn’t taken over. I’ve looked through enough of Mikael’s notebooks with Makena to recognize the silver lasso that he’s wearing like a bandolier across his chest. The same lasso that tamed the wolf demon who got a dead king yanked out of his anus. Somehow, the lasso’s taming Fauconnier’s beast. But judging by what he did with that sledgehammer, it hasn’t affected his strength.

I bring up the shotgun and take aim as he crosses the stream separating Rudder’s property from Makena’s. “That’s far enough!” I call out—though the truth is, I hope to hell he comes closer. Because these guns might not offer me much of an advantage, but if I can get him into the area outside the mine’s entrance, he’ll likely end up sick and dizzy. I will be, too. But thanks to Jonas, I’ve gotten plenty of practice lately of fighting through sick and dizzy. “If you know what the fuck is good for you, you’ll turn tail and run.”

He keeps coming, wearing a smug smile that has my finger itching on the trigger. His revolvers are in shoulder holsters, and there’s not a damn thing about him that looks like he hunts werewolves. Instead he looks like a banker on his day off.

Except for those guns. And the leather gloves he’s wearing. They tell me that he intends to handle some of that silver—maybe by digging bullets out of me or by using the knife sheathed at his belt. Jonas’s knife, I bet.

Tonight I’ll be getting that back.

“I’m not the one who ought to be running,” he tells me. “So let me lay it out for you, Grimmson. They aren’t going to blow the entrance to the mine while they’re still inside it. And as soon as they come out, I don’t have to get close to them. I can shoot from here. Then I just have to…tidy up loose ends.”

Loose ends like Jonas. Or maybe Charlie and his friends, too. And point their murders at someone else—probably me. Which will be pretty easy to do if I’m dead.

“So as you can see, Grimmson…it doesn’t matter what you do. You’ll die, as your kind should. Bjørn and Amira’s daughter will die. I’ll retrieve whatever’s in that mine. And I’ll win.”

“Maybe.” Not a fucking chance in hell. “I just want to know one thing. You called me Grimmson, so you know who I am. Did you kill my family?”

—I’m at the chamber! And it’s here!—

Makena’s faint, muffled shout tightens everything in my gut and sends my focus flying behind me, so although I don’t take my eyes off of Fauconnier, I barely hear his reply.

“I did. And your father, especially, made it really easy to find them. He was a bit too good at his job, solved too many cases, found evidence too easily. A man can’t do that unless he’s got a good nose to rely on.”

My throat closes up. Too good at his job. The job that helped him protect and serve the people around him. Just as my mother and brother did.

And this fucker thinks they were a danger to the world? That humans are better off without them?

“I have to give you credit, though. You’re much more prepared than they were,” Fauconnier continues. “They brought claws to a gunfight. So I put bullets in their guts and watched them die slowly. Much like I’ll do to you now.”

I hope so. Dying slow is a hell of a lot better than dying fast. It gives you more wriggle room. But I guess we’ll see.

I squeeze the trigger. The blast hits him square in the chest. He staggers back, grimacing, and I pump the shotgun and squeeze off another shot. This time as he absorbs the impact, I drop the shotgun and whip out the pistol. I get off two bullets—one tearing a bloody streak off his forehead, the other smashing into his cheek—before he reaches for his revolver.

—They’re shooting! Oh my god oh my god, Kyle, go see—

He’s fast. I’m just a bit faster. The silver bullet whizzes past me.

The next one catches me in the ribs. And it’s exactly like every other time that silver got into me. Agony flares hot, dropping me to my knees. I can’t even try to avoid the next bullet. It punches me in the stomach and my blood pours out, hot and metallic. Biting back a scream, I clamp my hand over my gut. Fauconnier walks up and kicks me aside like a piece of trash.

I crumple to the ground. My mind shredded by pain, I haul up everything I practiced with Jonas and his knife. Working past the agony. Focusing on the point where the silver touches my skin…or where it’s burning a hole inside me.

Dimly I’m aware of Makena screaming. The pain in my gut spreads. But that’s not the silver. That’s my fingers, digging for the bullet. Digging it out, just like Fauconnier dug it out of my parents and my brother.

Tearing open my own gut hurts less than the fucking silver bullets do.

While Fauconnier stands near—not even paying attention to me. Because I’m as good as dead.

That crack of another gun and Fauconnier’s pained grunt sends my eyes flying open. Kyle. The sheriff stands at the entrance to the mine, using the broken door as cover when Fauconnier aims his revolver to return fire. Bullets ping off stone, thud into wood. Makena’s muffled cry is followed by Kyle’s low answer. Telling her I’m down.

Yeah, I’m down. But I’m not done yet.

Agony fills my hand as I pull the bullet out of my gut. Just one bullet. But this will have to be enough. Just enough to make sure she survives. Using Makena’s own plan—the one she told to Carrie. Grab his bare skin. She doesn’t even know that she’ll end up saving herself with that suggestion. My intention was to dig out any bullets Fauconnier shot into me and while he was unprepared, transform into my wolfskin and launch an attack. But I won’t be able to get to the other bullet unless I shred open my lungs to get to it. That one will kill me. But not before I finish him.

And he’s good and distracted now, watching that mine entrance, waiting to shoot at Kyle again.

Pain rips through me as I roll over in the dirt, my stomach torn to hell, and gather my strength. It’s not much. But I’ll only get one chance at this, so I haul up everything I’ve got left inside me. Everything bit of strength I manage to find amid the anguish shredding my mind, I figure it’s only because I love Makena so goddamn much.

That love pushes me up onto my feet. With his back to me, Fauconnier stiffens as if he heard the scrape of my boots over dirt and realized it was different from the scrape of me writhing over the ground in agony. Holding that bloody silver bullet, I lurch forward—slapping my hand against the side of his bare neck.

Fauconnier shrieks, his back arching violently in agony. With darkness rushing in at the edges of my vision, I snatch the silver knife from the sheath at his hip, new pain swamping over me again as my fingers close around the silver. Almost too weak to lift that small weight, the only reason I’m able to plunge the blade into his chest is because Jonas kept it so damn sharp.

With the very last of my strength, I shove Fauconnier forward, toward the mine. The instant he stumbles too close, he falls to his knees, retching. His gloved fingers pull at the blade but the sickness and dizziness take him and he slumps over onto his back, his hands falling uselessly away from the knife.

The world tilts. I’m not standing now but lying in the dirt, staring up at the full moon. The agony in my chest isn’t spreading anymore. Instead, numbness is moving in. Because I’m dying.

But it’s all right. Makena’s safe.

And I hold the vision of her close as I begin slipping away.

25

MAKENA

EVEN WORSE THAN all the gunfire is everything falling silent.

Frantically I prepare the explosive and shout for another update from Kyle. “What’s happening?!”

Because the last time, Ethan was down. Shot. Tears splash over my cheeks as I crouch next to the giant skeletal hand, the bony fingers curled into a loose fist like a dead spider’s legs. A god’s hand. I should be taking pictures, recording this discovery for humanity, so that researchers like my father could study it and people like me could look at it and wonder if everything they’ve known about life just got turned upside down. This hand has the potential to upend the world, to usher in a new era of knowledge and understanding.

Instead I shove a stick of dynamite under it. “Kyle!” I scream. “Is he still moving?”

No answer. Then a hoarse “No” scrapes its way through the crawlspace and tears open my heart.

Dead. Or no, no—I can’t think that way. Not dead. But maybe dying.

Through helpless tears, I look toward the opening in the wall of the chamber. The rope dangles from the crawlspace, and the fuse is at least twenty feet long from the opposite end of the crawlspace to the blasting cap. At least ten minutes to burn after we ignite—but we can’t even do that until I’m on the other side of the crawlspace, and it’ll take me at least a couple of minutes just to get back out there. Ten to fifteen minutes, with Ethan dying from agonizing wounds in his gut and his chest.

I won’t let him.

My heart pounding sick and heavy, I retrieve one of the emergency flares from the bag. Thirty seconds per foot. How fast can I get through the crawlspace? It’s only eight feet long.

Eight tight enclosed feet, with me wriggling my way through on my belly and propelled forward by the shuffling movements of my elbows and the tips of my boots. But there’s the rope. And Kyle at the other end to pull it.

Kyle’s voice raises in alarm as the flare ignites with a distinctive hiss and burst of orange light. “Makena? What the hell are you doing?”

Mentally measuring the distance from the blasting cap against how long Ethan might have left. Against how long I’ll need. Weighing them against each other…and knowing that I’m going to have to crawl like crazy.

Thirty seconds per foot. I estimate two feet, point the burning end of the flare at the fuse cord, and the stink of melting plastic rises with a wisp of smoke. I wait until the flare burns all the way through the fuse—it’ll start burning in both directions, but only one direction matters now.

Dropping the flare, I race across the chamber and grab the rope. “Sixty seconds!” I shout, hauling myself up with my booted feet scrabbling along the stone wall. “Give or take ten or twenty seconds!”

“What?”

“Start counting! And pull!”

Something like “oh holy motherfucking shit” shoots down the crawlspace and then I’m squeezing my way into it, sucking in a hiss of pain when it feels as if the edge of the rock tears away half the skin over my stomach. With my left hand, I grip the rope ahead of me and frantically begin scooting, scooting, the toes of my boots slipping too often, my right elbow on fire where I’m using it to help push me along. The steady pull on the rope seems to make each scoot go twice as far, but I’m aware of my mental clock counting down down down.

Thirty-three. Thirty-two. And I’m not sure if I’m halfway through.

“Hurry, Makena!” Kyle shouts and pulls harder. I bite back a scream as a jutting stone overhead seems to gouge a river of blood out of my shoulder. I’m fully inside the eight-foot-long tunnel, and with my left arm outstretched I can almost touch the other end. But the tightest part is up ahead, a slight upward bend that I have to contort around.

Fifteen. Fourteen.

Give or take ten or twenty seconds. Which means the time might be gone.

“Get back!” I shout at him, desperately wriggling forward. “Get the ear protection on and get out of the blast radius!”

Because all that heated air and pressure is going to shoot through this crawlspace like someone opening a shaken bottle of soda pop—and anyone in the path of that explosion is going to have a real bad fucking day.

He doesn’t move but keeps pulling. Sobbing, I scramble and scramble, reaching out with my hand. He grabs it and—

Three. Two.

We’re out of time, we have to be out of time. I scream as it feels like my arm is nearly ripped out of its socket, as my back is scraped raw, then I’m out of the crawlspace, crashing against Kyle as we stumble, racing deeper into the mine. At the first bend we tumble to the dirt floor and scramble to put on the ear muffs before he pushes me down, covering me with his body.

Negative ten. Negative eleven.

Maybe I didn’t insert the blasting cap right? Frowning, I glance up at Kyle and the explosion knocks me down again. My ears pop. The mine shaft shudders and rains dirt and gravel. I try to drag in a lungful of air and begin coughing as I inhale a lungful of smoke and dust, instead. Beside me, Kyle’s shouting something, but through the ringing in my ears and the ear protectors I can’t hear him. And can barely see him. Just gray smoke.

Kyle grabs my hand, jerks me to my feet, pushes the ear muffs off my head. “—have to get out of here!”

Because the mine hasn’t stopped raining debris. Everything around us seems as unsteady as I am, stumbling forward through the smoke with my arm around Kyle’s solid waist.

Heading out. Toward Ethan.

A shadow staggers through the swirling dust and smoke ahead. Kyle comes to an abrupt stop, his free hand dropping to his firearm, but I know that silhouette.

I’d know him anywhere. Tears slipping down my cheeks, I race the last few steps that separate us and throw myself into his arms. Grunting, Ethan catches me, holding me tight.

“I heard you,” he says, his voice raw. “Sixty seconds. Sixty seconds of sheer hell, when I couldn’t even fucking move and come help you. Don’t you ever do anything like that again. Not for me.”

I will for him. But given a choice, I hope neither of us has to do anything like that again. “As long as you promise not to get shot with magical bullets,” I tell him—then I feel and see the blood, so much blood, and I draw back in horror. “Oh my god.” His stomach. His chest. “Oh my god.”

“I’m all right,” he rasps. “I’m healing fast.”

This is after he’s been healing?

Kyle looks beyond him. “Fauconnier?”

“Probably healing fast, too.” Ethan catches my face in his big hands, his amber gaze searching my face. “You all right? All I can smell is your blood.”

“I got a little ripped up.” A shower of dirt falls between us. “We should go.”

Ethan nods. “The explosion shook everything up pretty good. It’s settling down now but… You should both wait just inside entrance while I take care of this bastard. The walls are shored up better there.”

“Inside the mine? But…the magic is gone, isn’t it?” After all, Ethan’s in here with me. “So it doesn’t protect us from him anymore.”

“It doesn’t need to. I’ll protect you from him.” His voice drops to a growl and he drags off the bloodied remains of his shirt, then shoves down his jeans. “But if you’re inside, you won’t have to see what I do to him.”

I don’t care what he does to Fauconnier. But I can’t let Ethan out of my sight again. Not yet.

And I can’t let him go yet, either. Burying my hands in his hair, I drag him down for a kiss that tastes of blood and smoke and dust, and the sheer miracle that is Ethan Grimmson.

“I love you,” I tell him, then say it again a moment later to the giant werewolf hunched over beneath the mine’s stone ceiling, with my fingers buried in his shaggy fur. “Be careful.”

He grins, showing all those teeth. Kyle makes a choking noise behind me. Then Ethan turns and heads outside. I scoop up his jeans and the rag of his shirt, then Kyle and I follow him.

Smoke and dust eddies into the clear air outside the mine’s entrance. Two large, dark stains on the ground freeze my insides for a horrible moment. One of those bloodstains was where Ethan had lain.

The other was where Fauconnier did. Now he’s gone.

But not far. Halfway down the slope, Ethan stands beneath the full moon, those amber eyes gleaming, his enormous body still and his pointed ears swiveling. His head abruptly turns to the right just as the crack of a gunshot splits the night.

I slap my hands over my mouth to stop my shriek when Ethan’s big head jerks back. Then he growls, stalking forward—toward the boulders piled up near the mine, I realize. Where Fauconnier must be hiding. And taking aim. Another shot rings out. Another. Each one striking Ethan’s massive form. As if Fauconnier hasn’t yet caught on to the fact that the silver doesn’t have the same magic anymore.

And Ethan… Ethan is letting him, I realize. Letting him become more and more desperate, shooting faster and faster, as Ethan slowly stalks closer in that horrifying form.

I knew Ethan was playful. But I’ve never seen exactly how deadly and menacing his playfulness could be. I do now.

As soon as Fauconnier runs out of bullets, Ethan suddenly lunges forward. In a single bound he clears a boulder, jumping out of sight.

Then Fauconnier comes flying through the air, landing on the slope and tumbling, rolling. Frantically the hunter clambers to his feet and looks around—then goes utterly still as Ethan returns. Crouching atop a boulder, fangs glistening in the moonlight, his claws like daggers.

With sudden desperation, Fauconnier grips a lasso slung over his chest. Ethan snarls, as if daring him.

Fauconnier rips the lasso over his head and tosses it aside—and screams, a horrendous howling shriek that clutches my heart with sheer terror.

“Makena…” Kyle says warily. “What the—”

The crack of bones cuts him off. Oh my god. Fauconnier screams again, but the sound deepens, rumbling and snarling, as the terrifying transformation overtakes him.

And it’s not like Ethan’s. That seems to be painless—and even when I’m watching closely, I can’t detect the shifting of his muscles, the altering of his skin. But now every harrowing bulge and rip and crack that changes Fauconnier from an average man to a giant beast is on horrifying, gut-churning display.

Even more terrifying is when it stops. In ruined clothes that split at the seams and hang off his form in ragged shreds, Fauconnier’s beast crouches, in appearance not much different from Ethan’s wolfskin. Lighter fur, maybe not quite as big. But I never understood quite so well what Ethan said about always being himself, in both forms. Because I don’t recognize anything of Fauconnier—or human—in the beast. Eyes alight with vicious savagery, that bloodthirsty gaze lands on me and Kyle, lips drawing back in a slavering snarl.

Ethan answers with a deadly snarl of his own—and leaps from the boulder, straight at the beast. They crash together in a slashing hurricane of claws and fangs. It’s so sudden, so violent, I stumble backward, muffling my scream behind my hands, not wanting to distract Ethan even for an instant. Beside me, Kyle draws his gun, but just stares over the barrel at the furious battle taking place before us.

A battle that Ethan is quickly winning. The beast is all unthinking fury and instinct, snapping and biting and slashing. But as pissed as Ethan must be, as full of anger and hatred for the man who killed his family and threatened me, he’s clearly still thinking. Using all his years of experience wearing that warrior’s skin to rip and tear with devastating accuracy. The beast howls with pain as a slash of Ethan’s claws spills guts and blood. A powerful bite ravages the beast’s leg, and as it stumbles, turning its back to Ethan for the briefest moment, Ethan rips out its spine.

The beast collapses to the ground. Still moving. Still growling. Fangs dripping blood, Ethan pushes the hulking form over onto its ruined back. Moonlight glints off his claws as he raises his massive hand. Going for the killing blow.

“Wait!” Heart thundering, I race forward. “Wait!”

Ethan pauses, looking back, bloodied teeth bared in a snarl.

“I’m not going to stop you,” I tell him, sweeping up the discarded lasso. “But this beast has no idea why this is happening or what it’s paying for. But he does.”

I toss the lasso onto the beast’s chest. This time there’s no crunching of bones, just the magic in that lasso transforming the beast into Fauconnier again. But only an instant passes—long enough for us to see the dawning realization in his eyes—before Ethan casually swipes at the murdering bastard’s head.

It rolls to a stop at the base of a boulder.

“Oh Jesus.” From behind me, Kyle looks from the head, to Ethan, to me—and then just sits in the dirt, gun held loosely in his hand. “Oh sweet Jesus. Holy shit.”

I reach for Ethan’s enormous hand, his long fingers entwining with mine. “Kyle. Are you okay?”

Though is face is so white that his faint freckles are visible even under the moonlight, he nods. Then swallows thickly. And nods again. “I’m glad you did that. Turned him back human. I don’t know how I’d explain a werewolf body.”

I hadn’t even thought of explanations. Only of surviving—and making certain that Fauconnier didn’t escape what was coming to him. “Okay, but…how will you explain that?”

The body. The head.

Kyle grimaces. “I’m really sorry to say… But probably a bear.”

Just like my parents. Because it’s the most believable story. Though my chest squeezes tight, I nod. “Right.”

I reach the small pile of Ethan’s clothes and hand him the bloodied shirt—which he simply uses to wipe off the worst of the new blood when he changes back to human form. He takes his jeans from me, but doesn’t step into them before asking gruffly, “You all right—after seeing that?”

“Yeah. Weirdly.” A shaky little laugh pushes through me. “Maybe it hasn’t settled in.”

He nods, cupping my cheek before looking to Kyle. “Thank you.”

“Sure. Anytime.” Kyle blows out a long breath, scrubs his hands over his face, then turns his considering gaze on Ethan. His eyes narrow. “You really want to thank me? Every time we have to conduct a search and rescue around here, you be the first to volunteer.”

The corners of Ethan’s mouth twitch into a faint smile. “I’ll do that. I’m also real handy whenever there’s a fire, too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ethan glances behind him, at what remains of Fauconnier. “I’ll pick up the silver bullets because they’ve got my blood all over them, but do you need me to do anything with this mess?”

Kyle shakes his head. “Just leave him out here. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. That’ll muddy up some of the evidence—and Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying that. This is a pretty clear case of self-defense, but I’m the goddamn sheriff. My job is to uphold the law and here I am deliberately fucking with it. And I should be more conflicted about that.”

“Me, too,” I tell him softly. But I’m not. And I understand all too well what’s happening to him. Right and wrong hasn’t changed…but some of the other lines that he took for granted have suddenly shifted.

Suddenly he pushes to his feet, his voice ragged. “I need to see my wife. And just hold her for a bit.”

“Take my truck back up to the house,” I tell him. “We’ll clean up here a little and then make our way back up on foot.”

Probably with Ethan carrying me the whole way, because he’s already scooping me up into his arms.

Kyle starts toward the truck, barely pausing when I call after him, “And Kyle—I know you want to see her, but drive slow back up to the house. There’s still a case of dynamite in the truck bed.”

His laugh rolls back to me. “After everything we survived tonight, Makena…I’m not worried a bit. See you at the medical center.”

“As soon as we can.”

But first…we need to do what Kyle is heading off to do. Just hold the person that we most need to hold.

And Ethan holds me tight as he carries me down the slope, around a pile of boulders—until the body’s out of sight, I realize. There he sets me down atop a flat stone, his fingers and eyes gently searching out all the injuries his nose has already told him about.

“Makena,” he whispers hoarsely as the gouge on my shoulder is exposed, as his fingers lift the hem of my shirt to find my stomach, scraped and bleeding. “Let’s get you back to the house, get these cleaned and bandaged up.”

“Not yet,” I tell him. Because I can’t stop touching him, looking at him. On his chest and stomach, there’s no sign of the bullet wounds. And the pain of these cuts and scrapes can’t hold a candle to the joy of knowing that he’s here and alive and he’ll never have to leave. My voice is half laughter, half sob. “I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

“You will never lose me,” he swears. “And I’ll never let anyone take you from me. You’re mine, Makena. Which means I’ll always be yours.”

And as his mouth finds mine under the full moon, he kisses me. The kiss of a man who’ll give me everything. The kiss of a man who believes I’m his whole world. The kiss of a man who’s staying.

Forever.

26

EPILOGUE

ETHAN

THREE YEARS LATER…

I’m standing at the front of my ancient truck, surrounded by a cloud of steam and considering the merits of tearing out the guts of the whole damn vehicle, when the sound of an unfamiliar engine approaches and slows.

A second later, I damn near keel over as the smooth hum of an electric window rolling down is followed by a waft of air-conditioned new-car smell and Makena’s sweet scent.

“Hey, cowboy!” Her husky voice stiffens every goddamn part of me. “Need a ride?”

My heart fills up so damn full, my chest puffs right up with it. Grinning, I head over to her open passenger window, duck my head to look in. She’s laughing at me in that silent way she has, but despite the air-conditioning she’s got in this new rig, the spicy scent that’s slipping through her natural perfume says she’s getting real hot, too.

“Looks like you broke your truck again,” she observes with a grin. “And I bet you had somewhere real important to be today, too.”

Yeah, I did. Home. But home came to me, instead. “So this is the rig you decided on while I was gone?”

“A reverse mullet pickup,” she says. “Party in the front, business in the back. So I couldn’t resist.”

I laugh. Because, yeah. That truck bed is still good for working on the ranch. But I’m not so sure about the party. “Is that what you call Michael throwing crackers at you from his carseat?”

Though our son’s not in there now. Probably he’s at home with Jonas, who traded in being a horse whisperer for being a baby whisperer about the second after we brought Michael home from the hospital.

“Nah,” she says. “It’s the party we’ll have breaking in the backseat of this extended cab. Get in here, cowboy. Because I’ve missed the hell out of you.”

And I’ve missed the hell out of her. I grab my duffel from my truck and load up into hers, tossing the bag in the backseat before moving in for a kiss—and Christ, her taste. Two weeks without her and it’s brand new all over again, leaving me so fucking dizzy and hungry that it takes all my strength just to pull back and tell her, “I love you so goddamn much.”

“I love you.” Her eyes glisten before she blinks the tears away, puts the truck into drive. “But I think we’ll actually have to wait about five months to break in the backseat. Because I don’t know if I can fit back there now.”

“I bet you could. And you know I’m real good at fitting big things into tight spaces,” I tell her and her laugh lifts me straight up to heaven.

Not that she’s all that big yet. Just a swollen little mound that I slide my palm over now, feeling like I do every damn time I touch her. Like a man who somehow gained the whole world in the form of one gorgeous woman.

Her hand covers mine, as if to hold my touch close as she slows and turns down the county road that follows the river to home. “How are you? It looked so terrifying on the news.”

The wildfires that I just spent two weeks fighting. The first time I’ve been called out of state since I joined up on a seasonal crew two summers back. “As bad as it looked,” I tell her. “But I met a few other kin.”

Her gaze shoots to mine in surprise. “Really?”

I nod and rub her belly. “I told them they ought to come up this way for a visit. And that there’s a fancy new resort that they could stay at.”

Because Fauconnier’s death barely slowed the development down. Apparently he handed over the reins to MDC so often to go on his hunts that the transition to the new head of the company was smooth as silk—and the woman who took over his position not the least bit interested in deviating from the development’s original plans. So the construction went ahead—and in the meantime, MDC sold off Rudder’s property.

Which I bought, using the money I got after selling my own family’s homestead, and gave it to Makena as a wedding present. So Makena’s spent the past three years slowly building up her herd again. With twice as much land to take care of, she re-hired Julio and he moved into the old Rudder place with his sister.

Me, I could have done nothing else but work the ranch. God knows I love the place like she does. But being who I am, I can easily do the work of three or four men. So the seasonal firefighting fulfills a need I have as wolfkin, that part of me that comes from a family of cops and firefighters. Plus it brings in enough extra cash that, combined with what was left over from selling the homestead, gives us a little more cushion.

“That’ll be great if they can visit,” Makena says, and although she’s telling the truth…I can also detect a hint of uncertainty.

“What’s worrying you?”

She bites her lip before glancing over at me. “We never really figured out why my scent affects you like it does. Like it still does. I thought it was my parents’ rings, but when we destroyed Tyr’s hand, whatever magic that bled into me should have vanished just like it did from the bullets. So what if these kin are affected, too? And why are you laughing?”

“Because”—I bring her hand to my lips, kiss the silver rings she’s still wearing on her thumb and pinky…right next to the rings I gave her—“that part of your scent did vanish. That same night.”

“What?” She looks at me wide-eyed, and now there’s a bit of fear coming off her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Christ. That hint of sour fear is killing me, because I can guess where it comes from. She’s thinking that silver made a rope that bound her to me with that scent—and now that rope’s gone.

Except it’s not.

“Because it was all the same to me,” I tell her softly. “I get a whiff of your scent, and I still can’t stop myself from searching you out. I breathe you in deep enough, I still get real damn lightheaded from it. I still get real goddamn hard, so all I can think about is getting between your legs, where the smell of you is so rich and strong. You’re still fucking irresistible, Makena. And every damn time I smell you, I smell a woman who I know will always be my whole damn world—and a woman who it would fucking kill me to walk away from. So all that silver did was let my instincts know what my heart was going to learn.”

Her eyes full, she blinks and swallows, pressing her trembling lips together before whispering, “Okay, then. And I have something for you.”

I grin. “Do you now?”

Her laugh is soft and watery. “I do. Because I had that ultrasound last week.”

My heart squeezes in. I kiss her hand again. “I wish I’d been there for you.”

“It’s okay. Because they gave me a gender-reveal thing to give to you. Like a…I don’t know. You’re supposed to open it and see. Like a surprise.”

I already know what the baby is. I’ve been smelling it in her scent for a while. But I kept it to myself, because the only surprise I could have ruined was hers. “So you’ll give that to me?”

“I was going to.” Her voice thickens. “And then I realized that the whole reveal is based on color. You know. Blue or pink? But you wouldn’t even be able to see it. Especially if it was pink.”

And it is pink. I’m not sure if she’s real upset by this or if it’s just the pregnancy hormones swinging on her emotions. “It’s all right. I can tell blue from pink. So you want me to open it up?”

“Yes. But not until I give you something else.” She pulls into the driveway, tires crunching over the gravel drive. “It’s in that bag in the back.”

A small white paper bag marked with a Vane Optical logo with an oblong case inside. I pull it out, open it up, frown at the pair of glasses sitting there. “What are these?”

“I was going to wait until Christmas. But this damn gender reveal thing—” She breaks off, draws a shuddering breath. “It’s those color-correcting glasses. So you can see pink.”

My throat closes up so fucking tight, I can’t say a thing. How the hell did I get lucky enough to meet Makena Laine? Lucky enough that she fell in love with me? This beautiful, incredible, amazing, generous woman.

Who’s so damn beautiful. Dimly I’m aware of the brilliant green around us as she pulls up to the house. Aware of the vivid red of the barn and the way all the colors come together, so much brighter and vibrant.

But they’re all nothing next to Makena. The rich tones of her skin, the glittering depths of her eyes. Her gorgeous smile and those full lips and that…pink tongue.

Sweet Christ. It darts out to lick her bottom lip before she says huskily, “You are ridiculously sexy when you’re wearing glasses.”

“You’re ridiculously sexy when I’m wearing glasses, too.”

Her laugh goes straight to my dick—already so hard after imagining her tongue all over it, now it’s aching to be inside her. With a soft growl, I tell her, “I hear Jonas and Michael out in the barn. Which means we’ve got a house to ourselves.”

She unbuckles fast, but I’m faster. I’m out of the truck and around to her side before she manages to open the door. I scoop her up and head onto the porch and into the house. Straight to the stairs, which I clear in three lunging steps. Makena holds on, her arms twined around my neck, her kiss as hungry as mine.

And Christ—our room is a burst of color. It’s always been the most vibrant for me, the way Makena’s and my scents mixed, and then came Michael’s to add to the perfect fragrance that was home. But there’s so much dazzling color in here, too.

At the center of it all is Makena. Lying against the pale bedspread, full of so much life from head to toe. I strip her now, slowly, baring every luminous inch as I worship her with my mouth. Then down, to where the essence of her is so strong and pure and hot—and as I spread her open for a taste, she cries out in pleasure.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she says on a little sobbing breath. “Missed this so much.”

Touching her. Tasting her. Especially like this.

She gives a strangled gasp at the first long, rough lick. Then looks down at me, laughing and lifting her hips, her body begging for more. “You’re so bad, Ethan,” she moans as I taste her again, deeper, and I can’t reply as my clawed fingers hold her still, as she begins to writhe and squirm against my tongue. And when she comes, I finish playing, but only after licking away the incredible taste of her pleasure, the way her pussy melted all over my tongue.

And then melting all over my cock as I rise up and sheathe myself deep. Her body clutches me tight, inside and out—holding me with her slick inner muscles, with her strong hands that spear into my hair and pull me down for a kiss. And keeping me close with the emotion in her eyes. Stronger than any scent, any rope, any chain—or any magic. Just her love, and her voice saying my name.

END

Looking for more werewolves? Teacher’s Pet Wolf is a long novella, and super hot. A teacher and a wildlife expert meet after almost a year of long-distance flirting, and oh boy—they generate some heat. Then there’s Beauty in Spring, an over-the-top, filthy Beauty-and-the-Beast retelling about a girl who returns home after ten years to find that her childhood love isn’t the same man he used to be. Just turn the page for more info and links!

TEACHER’S PET WOLF

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Set in the same world as High Moon, this story features a sexy alpha who is going to teach his mate a few lessons about local wildlife…

Alicia Simmons rarely lets anyone get too close. So crushing on a hot wildlife expert via videochats in her classroom is completely safe. The long-distance flirtation means no expectations—and no expectations means no disappointment…or hurt. And when Ranger tells her he’s visiting her neck of the woods, spending a few days—and nights—with him doesn’t sound too dangerous, either. Sure, when the fling is over, she’ll have to pick up the pieces of her heart. But at least he’ll be safe from the beast inside her.

Except Travis Ranger isn’t coming for a fling. He’s coming for Alicia. And he’s got a lot to show the shy science teacher…starting with a lesson about what happens when a wolf finally gets his claws on the woman he’s waited far too long to claim. And no matter how hard she tries to push him away, he’s never going to let her go.

Because Alicia thinks she’s a beast? His shy little teacher hasn’t seen anything yet…

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A BEAUTY AND THE BEAST ROMANCE

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Inspired by the story of Beauty and the Beast, a short and sexy interpretation of the classic fairy tale…

A beauty unchained…

For ten years Cora Walker has yearned to return to Blackwood Manor…and to her childhood companion, Gideon Blake. But her dream of returning home soon becomes a nightmare—and the fully grown, dangerously sexy Gideon is nothing like the young man she’d loved before.

A beast unleashed…

Cursed by the monster that killed his family, Gideon sacrificed his heart to protect Cora from the beast that lurks beneath his skin. But when she returns and the curse chains her to his side, he only has two choices: to persuade her to marry him though he has stolen her freedom…or die to save her from the beast within.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Copyright © 2018 Kati Wilde

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First Digital Edition, November 2018

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