by Penny Alley
He could be patient, he told himself again. Once she was his, he could be whatever she needed him to be.
Beside him, Colton suddenly grabbed the fence. He hauled himself up on the bottom rung, face turned into the morning breeze as he breathed in long and deep. He growled, the wolf right under the surface of his already rippling form, and fighting the need to Shift.
“Chevolak,” someone rumbled, and in that second the already building tension snapped across the whole of the field. It surged, so high and tight in both corrals Gabe could feel the vibration of it quivering in his gut.
Following the direction of Colton’s gaze wasn’t hard. The smell hit him first, carried on the morning breeze when Karly—the only chevolak to ever take part in a volka mating ritual—exited the woods. She had nerve, Gabe gave her that. Compared to the frightened, battered woman he had met only a few days before, this was a side of her Gabe never would have guessed existed. Bold as brass in nothing but a nightshirt, walking out onto the field beside Mama Margo as if she belonged here. She was painted, like every other Hunt participant. She was scented, the sinus-clearing allure tickling Maya’s scent from his nose. Judging from Colton’s reaction, it was tickling his Alpha’s even more.
“Ah hell,” he breathed, but one look at Colton’s white-knuckled grip on the fence and he knew his Alpha would not be Claiming a volka Bride.
The McQueens knew it too.
“So be it,” Sebastian said, grim finality in his tone as Karly joined the other women in the Bridal pen. She couldn’t Shift, but she took her nightshirt off anyway, joining the other females in a state of alluring undress. Showing every male there, Colton in particular, exactly what he was running for.
Colton’s answering growl was all wolf now. Though he maintained his human form, his muscles were tense. His cock standing high and hard. Ready for the run. Gabe looked to Marcus and they both stifled matching sighs.
“Interference,” they said together.
“Brides,” Colton growled back. “See to your own.”
“You first,” Gabe corrected. Were their pack larger, it wouldn’t matter if a lieutenant mated first, but they were only three strong. The Alpha had to be settled first, then Gabe could see to his own desires.
Far across the field, as if sensing she’d just fallen in the rank of importance, Maya turned her back on Gabe. He tried not to take it personally when she went to stand with Karly and did not look at him again. She was just being kind; the only female there willing to offer moral support to a chevolak. That kind of charity was an oft overlooked virtue among the volka, but like the swirling dance of pink and white paints that adorned his love interest’s long limbs and beckoning curves, Gabe couldn’t help admiring it.
A ripple of sheer restlessness swept the Hunt’s participants as gold and orange hues peeked above the horizon, painting the cotton of the clouds. Noses lifted as the soft morning breeze rustled the grass. A male jumped onto the fence beside Colton. He was young—too young for this to be more than his first Hunt—and consequently just stupid enough to say out loud, the wolf heavy in his guttural voice, “Nice tits.”
Did he mean Karly or Maya? Gabe couldn’t tell, but a hot fist dropped into the pit of his belly and exploded outward, filling his swift-running veins with the fiery need to react. Colton answered that need first. It was a quick burst of violence, one that began with a meaty crack, resulted in a dislocated jaw and ended in a heavy whump as the boy bellyflopped over the fence onto the ground. As tightly packed and overly keyed as every male in that corral had become, it started an instant chain reaction. The surge of volka men letting out their wolves was like standing in a barrel of lit fireworks. Only with teeth. Tolerance for the close confines evaporated under a wave of snarls. Pack mates folded in together, the way Gabe and Marcus both fell into line beside Colton. They put their backs to the fence, giving no one the chance to come at their flanks with a crippling kick or a bite.
Jax, the Alpha Deacon’s son, disappeared within a ring of all thirteen Scullamy males. Outcasts from the Scruff formed their own oh-so temporary pack, giving themselves the benefit of numbers without any certainty of cooperative allegiance. All four McQueens Shifted at once, back to back. The would-be alpha Sebastian, hackles raised and lupine eyes bright with determination, stared straight at Colton. Gabe stared back, letting him know whether he caught a Bride today or not, if he wanted Hollow Hills, then he was going to have to fight for it.
Goading cheers broke out among the gathered packs. Encouraging shouts from the residents of Hollow Hills (some for Colton, others quite vocally for the McQueens) mingled with jeering taunts, mostly aimed at Scullamy, although the Scruff caught their fair share. Bets changed hands and the sun had only just broken above the trees, its shining face birthing as if from out of the earth. Traditionally, that union had to be completely broken before the ropes dropped and the females took flight. But traditions weren’t always marked the way they should be and later, if anyone commented on how unconventional it was for the males to escape their fences first, well, it wouldn’t be the only oddity recalled about this particular Hunt. All Gabe knew was he wasn’t Shifted yet and that put him behind every other male who was. The last thing he saw before he let his wolf out was the females scattering from their corral.
The Hunt was on.
“Brides!” Colton ordered, his form rippling as he leapt the fence, landing with all four paws on the back of the boy just now trying to pick himself up. He bellyflopped to the grass again, holding his jaw with both hands and flashing as much throat as he could. His puppy-ish mews of pain were the only reason they—Colton, Marcus, even Gabe, in the here-and-now of full pack mentality—did not savage him.
They charged the field instead, racing together as one cohesive unit for the scattering females. Marcus hung right, guarding Colton’s side while Gabe fell back to defend his Alpha’s black-furred flanks. Their caution was not without merit. More than half of the Hunt’s youngest participants never made it out of the corral. Pack brothers turned on those without, and anyone too slow to get out of the way of his neighbor’s teeth quickly fell. Too wounded to run was the tradition. Settling old scores was the actuality, and it was what Gabe expected when the McQueens shot onto the field just behind him.
The threat of four sets of teeth itched up Gabe’s hindquarters. He turned with a snarl, but the McQueens—Sebastian leading the way—veered away, colliding instead with Jax and his lieutenants in a cacophony of mauling bites, ragged snarls and yelping cries. Abandoning everyone who could not keep up, Jax broke away. His gaze remained fixed on the handful of females still fighting to break free of their corral. His sister, Joela, was one—slow to Shift, just now dropping to the ground, her hackles bristling all down her back as she turned on the most defenseless of all the participants.
Gabe raced faster, trying to keep up with Colton’s sudden burst of furious speed, but they were still a hundred yards away when she attacked Karly, knocking her to her back on the ground. Reflex threw Karly’s arms up in defense of her face, but Joela was bigger, faster and stronger. She went for Karly’s throat, teeth snapping bare inches from her flesh and missing only because of Maya and all three of Hollow Hills competing pack sisters.
Why Maya did it—because she was a romantic, because Mama Margo supported Karly’s participation, because her Alpha’s heart was involved—all of those reasons Gabe understood. Why the other three followed her in the attack had less to do with Karly and everything to do with revenge. They savaged Joela’s flanks, ripping away bloody clumps of blond fur, and shaking her in an assault that was as brutal as it was brief. The second Karly scrambled back on her feet, it was over.
Gabe couldn’t have been prouder, and when Maya turned and flashed him a panting grin, it was all the encouragement he needed. Then she and her sisters scattered, snapping at Karly to spur her on before abandoning her to her own devices. Gabe expected Colton to veer after Karly, but he didn’t. He charged Joela instead, a ridge of black hair archi
ng down his back and spiking out his tail. Canines bared, his ferocious snarl sent Joela crouching to her belly, lifting her muzzle in a show of submission he ignored. The only reason he didn’t fall on Joela, grabbing her by the neck and shaking her like a rag, was because Gabe hit him first, knocking him from the fallen female before he did anything her father could declare a legitimate Claim.
Colton turned on him, snarling without biting, but Gabe planted himself between his Alpha and the Scullamy bitch. Her tail lifted in beguiling surrender. Her eyes were fearless, even when Colton tried again to get at her. Again, Gabe forced himself between them. It wasn’t until Marcus shouldered in to stand beside Gabe that Colton at last gave in. Casting a baleful glare first at Joela and then Gabe, he turned with a flash of black tail and raced into the woods after Karly. He was only one of a half dozen volka males pursuing her as an easy catch, but that was his problem now.
It was time for Gabe to see to his own Bride.
Growling, Joela tried to get up, but the consequences of her attack on Karly and Colton’s attack on her, suddenly caught up with all of them. The Scruff males reached her first. Two came after Gabe and Marcus, nipping at their flanks to drive them off the prize. Marcus fled, pant-laughing back at Gabe as, obligation fulfilled, he headed back to join the rest of the crowd. The Scruff let him go. Having leapt away in a different direction, they let Gabe go too. Just as soon as he’d run far enough to no longer be a threat, their loose allegiance disbanded. The Scruff males fell on one another and on Joela, brutally intent on the Claim. She tried to fight them back, but sheer numbers were her undoing.
Life in the Scruff, especially for a female, wasn’t a fate Gabe would wish on anyone, but it served a Scullamy right. Abandoning her to it, he tipped his nose to the air. Seeking and finding the pungent scent of Maya’s bridal perfume, he chased it into the trees.
CHAPTER THREE
“Don’t get in my way,” Joela snipped, her ice blue eyes cutting disdainfully past Neoma to the human woman, just now stepping into their corral. Thirty volka women already crowded the ceremonial confines and still most found room enough in all the corners to avoid the chevolak as if she were a contagion. Neoma retreated with them, averting her gaze when the woman glanced her way. She didn’t like humans. She’d never trusted them. As a whole, they were a frighteningly intolerant race that had, for centuries now, found satisfaction in both demonizing her people and hunting them into extinction.
No, Neoma had no love for the chevolak. Not even ones who looked as lost and defenseless as the woman standing alone in the middle of their corral.
“She has no business here,” Joela muttered, nowhere near quiet enough for the human not to overhear. Knowing Joela, she probably meant to be heard.
“If you can’t run faster than her, you’ve got no business being here either,” a dark-haired woman in white and pink paints replied. Caring nothing for Joela’s temper or her penchant for getting even, she cast them both withering glances and stalked off to stand with the chevolak.
She had shed her torn shirt and now stood naked among them, emboldened by the paints that adorned her. Or perhaps, by the hungry stares of the males in the pen across the field. She was looking at them. At one in particular, Neoma noticed: the dark-haired Alpha of Hollow Hills itself.
He was looking back too, which explained Joela’s growing upset. That was the Alpha she had been ordered to catch. The daughter of the Alpha Deacon she might be, but she was not above his edicts. Be caught by the Alpha Lauren, he had told her. Just like Neoma had been told to be caught by Wayman. It was going to be difficult for Joela to manage it. For days, the Alpha Lauren’s eye had been fixed on the chevolak. Neoma knew it; everybody knew it. She was the Bride Colton wanted, not the coldly beautiful volka from Scullamy.
A subdermal itch tickled up her spine, creeping into her awareness as if on spidery fingertips. Her gaze pulled, she spied Wayman in the far corner of the males’ corral. He was staring at her, and he wasn’t alone. Just beyond him on the outside of the corral, the Alpha of Scullamy stood watching with her son, Scotty, standing on the fence beside him. Within arm’s reach. Small and defenseless beside the man who had killed his father.
Deacon’s eyes were cold, his mouth unsmiling as he settled his hand on Scotty’s small shoulder. He looked at her, telling her without voice that she would be his ever-obedient Neoma once more. Or else.
Scotty waved.
She felt the morning breeze catch in the cup of her clammy palms when she raised her arm, but she honestly didn’t know if she waved back or not. All she could see was how small Scotty was next to her Alpha. All she could hear was the agony of Matson’s screams as he’d writhed in the leaves and dirt while they skinned him. And she knew—knew—if she didn’t let Wayman catch her, that he would punish her. He would kill Scotty.
But if she did let Wayman catch her, Deacon would still punish her. He would do it slowly, over all the years between now and the rest of her life. And he would still kill Scotty. She could see it in the coldness of those grandfatherly eyes all the way across the field.
But, he wouldn’t do it here. Oh no, not in Hollow Hills where the other alphas might see, hear, or even suspect.
“Someone needs to put that chevolak bitch in her place,” Joela hissed, blue eyes flashing malevolence. “Come with me.”
Snapping at Neoma, Joela signaled two other women from Scullamy to fall in at her side. She was halfway across the corral, heading straight for the chevolak, before she realized Neoma hadn’t moved. She glanced back, her surprise fast fading into irritation. “I gave you an order.”
The acid in Joela’s tone could have defleshed bone, but Neoma barely flinched. She stared at the human—funny, how close proximity, or maybe it was the way the dark-haired volka was smiling and laughing with her, could make her seem almost…likeable—and then returned her gaze to that distant fence and the only one in her life who mattered.
Returning, Joela grabbed her arm. “You would do well to remember in whose good graces you’ll be in when we all go home tonight. Who do you think will keep you safe when he finally grows tired of playing the doting patriarch? Your pedestal isn’t anywhere near as high as you think it is.”
“Neither is yours.” The words were out before Neoma knew she had the courage to speak them.
Joela’s fingers on her arm became a bruising claw. “Whatever you think you know—”
Like a sickness, the chevolak’s boldness must be contagious. But though she knew it could only bring bad things, Neoma couldn’t stop herself. “You’re no safer than I am.” She wrenched her arm out of Joela’s painful grip. “You would do well to think about that when we all go home tonight.”
Joela stared at her, a war of shock and fury filling up her features when it became Neoma’s turn to walk away. She had no place to go except the other side of the pen, past the chevolak and the volka who defended her, but it still felt good. Scary, but exhilarating too. Neoma wasn’t brave enough to meet the human’s gaze, but she did glance at her volka friend. She must have been in the games yesterday. Her nose and eyes bore the tell-tale discoloration of a recent hit and her lithesome body was as bruised as it was painted, the pink and white lines boasting in age-old script of a strong body, a stronger will, and loyalty. In comparison, Neoma wore the traditional black lines of Scullamy obedience.
She was far from that right now.
She struggled to meet the dark-haired volka’s gaze as she passed. Be careful, she wanted so badly to whisper, but she just couldn’t. Ducking her head, she went as far from them as the corral would allow. She faced the woods now. Three hundred yards of dew-soaked grass lay between her and the Hunting ground. The sun was just beginning to rise. She didn’t have much time. Already the restlessness of the males was turning aggressive. She felt it like the snapping of a tiny internal thread, the quiver reverberating from her heart up into her throat, when the first fight broke out. To better one’s odds in the Claim through a little light maiming was pa
rt of the tradition, but the roar of the cheering crowd and baying howls of all that building testosterone made a fearsome sound.
Neoma kept her eyes averted. She didn’t want to see who was taking part in any pre-run scuffles. She didn’t want to see Wayman gearing himself up to catch and Claim her, hurting someone else to better his chances or Shifting into wolf form.
Run into the rising sun, he had told her. Take the hard hill.
The woods were a blanket of thick vegetation all around the openness of the field. The foothills of a surrounding mountain provided plenty of hills, but she knew the hard one when she saw it. There was only one section so steep as to make the climb almost vertical. Her hands itched to rub at the paint marks on her belly and thighs. She was scared—so very scared—but she already knew she wasn’t going to be anyone’s obedient little Neoma today.
The sun kept rising, giving her all the time in the world to change her mind and yet none at all to brace herself for what was coming. Breeze-swept trees beckoned, promising plenty of shade to hide in. She smelled water—a trickling brook or thin creek bed. Fresh water tumbling over rocks caressed her ears. Fresh air that had never known an oil refinery kissed her face. She trembled.
“They’re coming,” someone laughed behind her. “Look at them! Any minute now, they’re going to break that fence.”
Any minute now. She had to be ready.
Neoma Shifted. Like slipping into a warm bath, she let the change come over her, comforting and familiar though she hadn’t done it in such a long time. All through the females’ corral, the excitement level was rising, spurred on higher with each new bellow and curse coming from across the field. Then came barking, yipping. A high-pitched yelp of pain cut off abruptly under a howl that in an instant went from one voice to many.
“Here they come!” someone shrieked.