Real Men Hunt: Real Men Shift

by Kyle, Celia

  “Warren!” Chloe cried, smiling up at him but not hugging him, as Persia might have expected.

  He tightened his grip on her ass, which only served to tighten her nipples in a most embarrassing way.

  “Chloe, it’s good to see you again. How are you, Drew?”

  Chloe’s mate stuck out his hand at Warren, which forced him to remove his from her butt. Oh well…

  “Good to see you, man. What’s new with you?”

  A smile lit up Warren’s face as he looked down at Persia. “I’d like you to meet my mate, Persia McNish.”

  “Persia Edgecomb,” she corrected, thrilled to have a new name.

  Chloe squealed in delight as Drew gave him a congratulatory slap on the back. Persia suddenly found herself in a tight hug with her supposed rival, draining any hint of jealousy out of her.

  “I knew it,” Chloe exclaimed in Persia’s ear. Thankfully she pulled away and grinned up at Warren before shouting. “I fucking knew it! See, I told you you’d find your mate one day.”

  “Hey there, sailor,” Val rushed up to her best friend since college and gave her a bear hug.

  “You must forgive my sister, Persia,” Zeke sidled up to Chloe and draped an arm over her shoulder. “She used to be a school teacher in Tremble and never uttered a single cuss word. Ever since Drew came along and lured her away from her family, she’s developed quite the potty mouth.”

  Chloe elbowed her brother in the ribs, drawing a dramatic “Oomph!”

  Fang growled at the “attack” on her alpha, earning amused chuckles from everyone except Little Hux. He hunkered down and played with the dog while the grown-ups chatted.

  “Ignore my dumb, big brother, Persia. I’m just so happy Warren was patient enough to wait for you.”

  “Patience is everything.” Drew pulled his mate into a side hug and gazed at her with the kind of devotion Persia had always envied. Until Warren had come along.

  “Speaking of patience,” Warren said, clearly trying to change the subject, “I hear you two are foster parents now?”

  “Yes,” Chloe glowed with happiness, “we’re fostering twin boys whose parents were killed in a car accident.”

  Warren blinked in surprise, and Chloe held up a hand. “I know. Ironic, right? But it really feels like fate that they ended up with us.”

  “Chloe’s such an incredible mother,” Drew gushed.

  “And you’re a terrific dad,” she replied. “We’re on track to legally adopt them, but there’s a lot of paperwork and hoops to jump though. It’ll be worth it in the long run though.”

  “Chloe!” cried a voice through the mass of bodies.

  Trina came bursting into their little group, a harried Max following closely behind. As everyone greeted one another, Warren pulled Persia in front of him, wrapping his arms around her waist and clasping them together. She settled her head against his chest and relaxed into his heartbeat.

  “So, when are you two going to start making a bunch of adorable rogue pups of your own?” Chloe asked Trina and Max with a wink.

  Trina quickly ducked her head and tucked a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Max shot her a glance and then looked up at the sky, obviously avoiding everyone’s gaze. Chloe gasped and clapped her hands merrily.

  “Are you shitting me? This really is a day for celebrations. Isn’t it?”

  As they caught up, a line formed to greet the newest member of the pack—well, almost member. Persia found herself totally immersed in the warmth and connection they all seemed to share. The groups she’d become accustomed to over the years seemed to fracture or downright implode after a couple of weeks, but everyone in the Soren pack seemed to honestly care about each other’s happiness and well-being. Naturally, not everyone could be best friends, but they were more like a family. They may get under your skin now and then, but you were still willing to give up your life to save theirs.

  Even newbies related to their sworn enemy were treated like family. She lost count of how many pack members had thanked her for all the work she’d put in trying to save Wolf Woods. It was almost as if they sensed where her true loyalties lay, and considering her ridiculously heightened senses—some of which she still couldn’t control or decipher—they probably did.

  “So, what are your plans now that you’re chained to old Warren?” asked one of Val’s sentries with a teasing smirk.

  She couldn’t recall his name—Norman?—but he was easily identified by the faint pink circle smack in the middle of his forehead. With this group, the story of that circle was probably worth hearing and she made a mental note to ask Warren about it later.

  “I’ll have you know, Newman,” Warren spoke, reminding her of the man’s name and reminding Newman he was speaking to a mated female, “the NRC has already recruited my amazing mate as a legal consultant. She’s going to ensure all pack lands around the country are properly defined and deeded, so no one can ever dispute their territories and force them from their lands again.”

  Newman looked impressed. “Wow, big job.”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” she acknowledged, “and might mean traveling to other packs on occasion, but I’ll be damned if I watch anyone else try to do what my father’s been doing. It’ll probably take a few years, but it will be worth it in the long run.”

  Warren gazed down at her with pure adoration that set her heart fluttering. “Generations to come will have Persia to thank for protecting their lands.”

  Dusk had settled over the gathering and tiny twinkle lights decorated nearby trees, offering a touch of light and a festive atmosphere. Zeke stood on the porch and raised his hands. No need to shout or call everyone to attention because the simple gesture caught everyone’s attention. Even Persia felt a weird tug in her chest to look his way. Probably some shifter thing. She had so much to learn!

  “Listen up, party people! We are a very lucky pack. Our family is growing larger and stronger every day, and we have a number of people to thank for that. Namely, we have Persia McNish to thank. Don’t let her last name fool you. She has gone above and beyond to prove her loyalty to us. Using her passion and her legal expertise, she might just save Wolf Woods for good, and by extension, our pack lands, as well.”

  The whole crowd cheered, and Warren hugged Persia close as happy tears stung her eyes. But Zeke wasn’t finished yet.

  “But that’s not all she’s done for us,” he declared. “Persia is also moving forward with plans to have the state designate Wolf Woods as protected lands, so it will never be at risk again.”

  More cheers erupted through the crowd with all eyes on Persia, who blushed furiously and tried her hardest to hold herself together. All the warmth and affection being directed at her felt like a warm cocoon but sensing others’ emotions about her was still so new, it threatened to overwhelm her.

  “And just in case anyone was wondering, tonight Persia will officially become the Soren pack’s newest member when she accepts the loyalty vow.”

  Zeke joined everyone in applauding as he waved her up to the porch. Shyness had never been one of Persia’s finer qualities—or faults, depending how one looked at it—and it was in short supply that evening. Mostly because she was so freaking overjoyed to have finally found a family who cared about her and respected her. No one had given her a choice about her birth parents, but she sure as hell could choose her family now, and not a single question remained in her mind that the Soren pack was where she belonged.

  The ceremony was blissfully short, yet full of love and pure joy. Her vow would require her to put the welfare of the pack before all else, including her own life, to which she agreed readily. Two pack members had already risked their lives for her before she’d even become a wolf, and she knew the rest of them would too. It only seemed right for them to hear from her own lips that she would do the same.

  At the end of the ceremony, while everyone cheered and howled their approval, Persia flew down the steps and into her mate’s arms. They held on tightly, breat
hing each other in and savoring the moment as they tuned out the well-wishers. Finally, Warren pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  “I hope this doesn’t sound condescending,” he murmured into her hair, “but I’m so proud of you. So proud you’re mine.”

  She pulled back so she could grin up to him, ignoring the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Me too… my love.”

  He threw his head back and choked out a laugh thick with emotion. Then he brought his lips to hers and all she wanted was to be alone with him. Maybe no one would notice if they disappeared in the chaos. Just for a little while. An hour, two tops.

  As she reached for Warren’s hand to drag him through the crowd, her phone buzzed silently in her pocket. Nah, sex with her hot mate took precedence over a text. Then it buzzed again.

  Odd.

  “Sorry, one sec,” she pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans.

  The smile that had seemed permanently affixed to her face slid away as she read a series of emails from her connection at the courthouse. Anger replaced her joy and then fury took over. Of course this would happen today, of all days, she thought bitterly.

  “Shit,” she spat, tears of rage burning her eyes and her stomach threatening to unload all over the party.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The judge who was supposed to take several weeks to research our request for a permanent injunction against my dad just denied it out of hand.”

  Warren’s face paled and his jaw literally dropped open. “Are you kidding me? What’s that mean?”

  Persia met his gaze, not even trying to sugarcoat the situation. “It means my father is free to start tearing down trees first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Warren scrubbed a hand over his jaw and through his hair as he glanced around the happy gathering. “I don’t get it. I thought your case was iron clad. What happened?”

  “You know, I thought the judge’s name rang a bell when I heard the case had been assigned to him, but I didn’t make the connection till now.” Acid roiled low in her throat over her naïveté. “He’s one of my dad’s old golfing buddies.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Amber liquid swirled at the bottom of Dick McNish’s glass as he stared into the depths of his fourth Scotch of the night. Throwing back the last of it in one smooth motion, he rested the crystal glass on his polished mahogany desk and trained his hazy gaze across his large study to where the bottle sat. Maybe four was enough.

  His first drink of the night had been to celebrate his victory over Persia’s attempt to block progress. He’d even smiled as the smooth, smoky liquor slid down his throat and warmed his body from the inside out. The second drink had been to reinforce his belief he was actually celebrating. The third drink had turned his thoughts inward, never a good thing. And as the remnants of the fourth drink still tingled on his tongue, Dick couldn’t help feeling as if he was subconsciously drowning his sorrows.

  Ridiculous! He had nothing to be sad about. He’d won!

  But at what cost?

  He hated that little voice in his head. He’d spend most of his adult life ignoring it, to his great gain, and he had no intention of listening to it now. Not when he’d just managed to get everything he wanted.

  Dick let his gaze slide around the room to remind himself of how far he’d come. The genuine Tiffany lamp sitting on his massive desk cast just enough light to create creeping shadows all around. He’d paid far too much for the damn thing at auction, just to piss off a competitor. Its delicate glasswork and feminine colors seemed out of place in his masculine, wood-paneled office, but he refused to sell it. It said something about him, something he’d longed for all of his life. It told anyone who laid eyes on it he was important.

  Aside from the lamp, the room was exactly what he’d imagined for himself as a young man who’d put himself through business school. Heavy antique furniture lent a gravitas to the room, bolstered by a Persian rug worth a small fortune, a burgundy leather loveseat poised in front of a darkened fireplace, built-ins full of old books, and a mini-bar stocked with even older Scotch.

  Even the house was old. Naturally, after closing on it, his wife Patricia had immediately called in an army of contractors and interior designers to update the place, but they couldn’t erase all evidence of its age—as Patricia had managed to do with her face. Just like his aging bones, the house still creaked and groaned at odd moments. Patricia loved to gripe about it, but Dick had long ago learned how to tune out her and the creaks.

  As he stood from his leather Eames chair, one such groan came from the depths of the house. A smile tickled the corner of his mouth, wishing Patricia wasn’t lounging on some beach in St. Barts just so she’d be irritated that money hadn’t solved that particular problem.

  Empty highball glass in hand, Dick wandered over to the window overlooking his perfectly manicured and beautifully landscaped lawn. Another Patricia project, one he’d grown rather fond of over the years. The blackness outside only allowed him to see his own reflection, though, and that was something he couldn’t stomach. Not tonight.

  Turning away, a framed photograph perched on a bookshelf caught his eye. The Dick McNish in the photo looked far more familiar to him, though very little of the man he used to be still remained. A young and beautiful Patricia appeared annoyed as a small bundle of energy with a shock of vibrant red curls reached for someone just out of frame. Dick remembered that day, and he also remembered immediately firing the nanny Persia had been crying for.

  He set down the frame and moved to the center of the room, bewildered over how his dream study had turned into a tomb that trapped him with his own demons. Only in the dim light of his private sanctuary could he admit he’d been a shitty father. Of course, he’d been a shitty husband too, but he and Patricia had known what they were getting into when they’d wed. It had been a business arrangement, but that had been their choice. Persia never had a choice. She’d been dealt a shitty hand, and a soul as sweet as hers deserved better.

  Somehow, she’d wandered through the darkness of her childhood and into the light. She’d found a path that fulfilled her, and Dick couldn’t help admiring her dedication. Her bull-dog tenacity came from him, that much he could claim, but where the hell did her rock-solid ethics come from? Certainly not from her morality challenged parents. Maybe Disney movies, or the many nannies who’d basically raised her.

  Whatever the reason, he was proud of her. She rarely won against him, but he considered their little skirmishes to be a chess match. One day the student would become the master. She almost had, with that ridiculous beetle ploy. A pang of guilt wriggled deep in his gut, but he sniffed it away. He’d been holding onto a big, fat favor from an old friend for nearly two decades, just waiting for the right moment to call it in. He’d cornered her king and called checkmate.

  Persia needed to toughen up and play dirty, at least a little. If she had, she might just have won. But she hadn’t seen the playing board for the pieces. Just as with chess, Persia needed to learn the unspoken rules of the game before she could ever truly succeed. Those rules had been invented to separate the sheep from the wolves.

  He snorted softly at the irony and looked forlornly into his empty glass. Fixing his relationship with his daughter might be a fantasy, but filling an empty glass was easy. Shuffling over to the bar, he filled the glass. Hey, it was a celebration, right?

  The long sip of warm Scotch should have chased away the cold, which had settled on his heart. It should have made him feel better, more relaxed, but he was more tense than ever. Maybe once he got to the bottom of the glass again…or he’d simply pass out.

  Either or.

  If it was to be the latter, his Eames would be far more comfortable than collapsing to the hardwood floor. When he turned to retreat to the plush chair, he froze. Adrenaline spurted into his blood stream before his brain could even make sense of what his wide eyes were staring at.

  Seven huge wolves stood around the room, their eyes gleami
ng with bloodlust and their fangs bared. Uncontrollable tremors wracked his body and the full-to-the-brim glass slipped from his fingers at the same moment his bladder let loose. His sluggish brain was briefly grateful that the scent of the Scotch would overpower the smell of the urine spreading across the front of his bespoke slacks. Then he realized he would probably be dead in a matter of seconds, so it didn’t matter.

  He shot a glance over to his desk, where his gun lay in the top drawer, but a big, light brown wolf he recognized stood between him and the desk. The hackles running along the spine of the wolf stood on end, and his snarl turned into a guttural growl. It looked as if the son of the mutant he’d killed months ago would finally get his revenge.

  And all he could do was stand there and piss himself.

  Another wolf, this one shorter and stockier than the others, and with ginger-colored fur, stepped toward Dick, sending him into a full-blown panic. His knees buckled out from under him, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  “P-please!” he screamed, waving his hands over his head in surrender.

  Scrambling backward, he curled himself into a tight ball in the corner before daring to peek up at the ginger wolf. It had something in its mouth, but his fear and the darkness made it impossible to identify. Besides, unless it was some kind of firearm, nothing could help him now.

  “Please, don’t kill me,” he babbled, tears and snot and spit spraying everywhere. “I’ll do anything! Just don’t kill me!”

  Deep down, he was surprised by how quickly he’d conceded, but money and power meant nothing when you were staring Death in the face. Or in his case, seven versions of Death.