Winterstoke Wolves Collection : An MM Mpreg Shifter Romance Bundle

by Sasha Silsbury

  Cal, Luke and their kids have been coming here every three months for four years, and it’s become something of a family tradition: the bad coffee, the worse milkshakes, the argument as to who got the worst meal (different every time), and the familiar family competition of who’s going to be the first to spot Grandpa.

  Cal has no better idea of how to find Dad. The man moved from town to town, changing his name in each of them, and had spent half of Cal’s childhood patiently explaining to Cal how the country is so big that they’ll never need to live in the same town twice.

  Say you live for seventy years, Cal and move only every three months. That’s only two hundred and eighty moves. There are thousands of towns in the whole country. You’d never run out places, not in a single lifetime.

  Luke suggested asking Dan if he could put something out officially, but Cal had shut that one down immediately. As they’d learned from Reed, there were plenty of local authorities who’d be happy to take advantage of an unclaimed omega.

  That left the truck stop. It’s a long shot but it’s the only thing Cal has.

  They pull up to the parking lot and find a space that shows them the entrance and exit of the diner. When they first started doing this, Cal would have little moments of panic that they’d just miss Dad by a minute: he’d come in behind them while they’re unpacking the car, or he’d be pulling out just as they drove in.

  So now they park in the same place every time and Cal watches the coming and goings of the truck stop customers with an eagle eye from the moment the stop comes into view.

  Today, as always, Cal scans the customers as they drive in, looking for the familiar face of his father. It’s been years and when Cal left—or was taken—Dad was just starting to go gray. He could be anything now from part gray to fully white or dark like Cal’s own if he’s decided to dye the distinctive wings at his temples.

  There’s a gray-haired man filling up a blue van at the furthest pump. He’s too tall but Cal can’t help it. He stares anyway until the man senses someone and looks up with dark brown eyes that are nothing like Dad’s. Cal looks away, disappointed.

  Luke unbuckles Marta and Sophie from their car seats, and the girls immediately start chattering as they gather up a teddy each and what they call ‘diner treats’: the coloring books and puzzles they get to choose on the way each time. As usual, Cal watches the entrance of the diner. He feels a warm hand slip into his and squeeze.

  “I love you,” Luke says, and Cal wants to cry. It’s what Luke always says. He never says, “Maybe this time” or “don’t get your hopes up”. There’s nothing that can be said. This is an exercise in hope that only might pay out. All Luke can do is let Cal know he loves him, and that he wants this for him, and will be there for him if today isn’t the day that they find Dad.

  They walk to the diner hand-in-hand as a family, one child on either side of them.

  It’s eight in the morning. The place is too far from anywhere to have a proper breakfast rush, but it is busier than usual, being around half full.

  Their usual booth is empty so Luke slides in followed by the kids, and Cal takes his usual spot: the one with a good view of the door that allows him to see the whole diner. Cal scans the place, alighting on each unfamiliar face. He’s not here. Not yet.

  Luke goes to the counter to order breakfast and Cal settles in for a day of disappointment. He wants to fill it with endless coffee but then he has to go pee and what if Dad walks in and orders something to take out while Cal’s in the men’s room? He’s not missing even the slightest possibility of missing Dad for the sake of a mug of bad coffee.

  Luke drinks enough for both of them instead, and keeps the children entertained with their diner treats while Cal sits beside him, antsy and nervous.

  Just before lunch, Luke takes the children out into the open field behind the truck stop. Marta is four now, and Sophie is three. They can’t sit for so long without starting to bounce off the walls. Luke chases them while they squeal with excitement, stopping only when their little legs are tired and they’re both ready to have a nap against the softness of their dads in the comfort of the booth.

  Just past three, Cal is starting to rethink the coffee ban. He’s been staring at the door for hours. Luke has gone up to relieve his own coffee drinking habit, and the girls are both fast asleep, Marta with her tousled head in Cal’s lap. Cal just wants to close his eyes and put his head back against the leather seat and take some time out.

  When the bell at the door goes, Cal startles awake, confused. That’s why he thinks it’s still a dream when he sees an old man standing in the doorway of the diner, staring at Cal. The man is dressed in a red checked shirt and blue jeans, and he looks like a gray-haired version of Cal.

  Cal blinks. The man’s still there, and still staring. His mouth has turned down at the corners in that funny way some people have just before they’re about to start crying.

  “Dad?” Cal asks.

  Dad makes an odd noise that sounds halfway between a gasp and a sob. He fills the space between the door and Cal’s booth in seconds, enveloping his son in a bear hug that makes Cal squeak and almost lifts him to his feet.

  It dislodges Marta from her nap, and she sits up, pink-faced from sleep.

  Dad startles at the sight of her, and his mouth drops open, then he grins wider than Cal has ever seen. Marta’s soft black hair and the dimple at the corner of the mouth make her the image of Cal as a child.

  Marta looks from Cal to his father, then back at Cal and then her face brightens with excitement. “I win! I got to see Grandpa first!”

  A concerned look crosses Dad’s face. He looks around, and sees the other sleeping child, then turns to check the diner slowly.

  “Are you okay?” he says softly, as if someone might be listening, and Cal sees how many new lines there are on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. His father looks as if he was been tired for a long time. “Are you on your own?”

  Cal’s heart breaks for him. He can’t imagine how he’d feel if Marta or Sophie just disappeared like he did. “No, I’m not alone, but it’s good. He’s a good one. I... I got away from the bad one.”

  Dad takes Cal’s hand. “Oh, thank God,” he says, but Cal notices him checking him over anyway, and the children, as if looking for bruises.

  “We really are fine, Dad. I promise. I’m happy.”

  The bathroom door swings closed, and Luke appears, rubbing his hands on his jeans. He does a double take when he sees the man beside Cal.

  Dad shrinks back, but then Luke looks at Cal, and Luke’s smile is so bright and full of joy at Cal’s happiness that Dad visibly relaxes, and the beginnings of a smile start to show on his lips.

  Cal steps forward and takes Luke’s hand in his.

  “Dad,” he says, “This is Luke.”

  ***

  Wild is the Wolf

  Winterstoke Wolves Book Two

  SASHA SILSBURY

  CONTENTS

  1. blood and bone

  2. pine needles and gauze

  3. sharp things and unnecessary numbers

  4. names and pheromones

  5. exhaust fumes and a curled-up palm

  6. sharp white teeth and scents on the wind

  7. blood and ash

  8. mud, pack politics and sticks

  9. pebbles and door handles

  10.shampoo and coffee

  11. stairs and broken alphas

  12. pheromone fogs and bossy betas

  13. flowers and dinner

  14. shivers and rabbits

  15. small choices and big towels

  16. orchids and ice-cold skin

  17. brothers and motivation

  18. glass and rabbits

  19. old cigarette smoke and the grand hotel

  20: yellow vests and desperate kisses

  21: soft towels and hard bites

  22: shampoo and shoulds

  23: bandages and savages

  24: cold shivers and hot
tea

  25: socks and sobbing

  26: flip flops and beer cans

  27: itchy scars and lines on a stick

  28: toothpaste and a proposal

  29: finding a place

  30: aching muscles and snarling alphas

  31: reds, golds and the remains of a suit

  32. rules and barbarism

  Epilogue: bellies and blobs

  GRAY

  blood and bone

  The gray-eyed wolf stumbles on under the blistering hot sun. He’s panting hard, head hung low, the strength draining out of him.

  He’s limping as fast as he can on three paws, the fourth lifted from the ground. Despite never touching down, he jolts with pain with every step.

  White bone glistens among red matted fur and gristle. His fur is wet and sticky with blood: on his leg, his flank, his throat. Everywhere.

  He thinks the blood has stopped flowing, or is flowing more slowly at least, but he’s not sure.

  He’s close to the end of pack territory now, and he barely remembers what lies beyond. He hasn’t been this far down the mountain in a long time.

  He’s never liked the scents of humanity that drift up from the town below, and this time of year is worse. He’s picking up the stink of humanity with every labored breath.

  The rocky ridges all around give little shelter from the summer sun. The only plants here struggle for life in the crevices and are eaten by rabbits the moment that they poke their heads too high.

  The cool shelter of the forest isn’t far now.

  He’s trying not to pay attention to his injuries. He can’t afford to. He needs to get out of the mountains, and fast.

  His back leg slips suddenly against a hidden root on the forest floor, and he stumbles, falling on the injured paw.

  Bright pain turns his vision white and when he recovers, he finds himself panting, vision blurry under the sun.

  He can’t keep on like this. He’s not going to make it past the river at this rate.

  The gray-eyed wolf makes a decision.

  He sits back, takes a final last sniff of the surroundings to make sure he is still alone, and then shifts.

  Pain rips through his broken arm and reverberates throughout his injured body. The gray-eyed man screams.

  He clenches his jaw closed with some effort and swallows the rest of the scream. He can’t afford that either.

  It takes some time before his body stops trembling and he can move his muscles again. He stands gingerly, pushing himself up with his uninjured arm.

  Colors assault his eyes. The wolf sees in more detailed shades of gray and at night, but the man sees better in color. He doesn’t like it.

  He also doesn’t like that he is now practically scent-deaf and that his ears only pick up the loudest sounds.

  But there are some benefits. The man gently reaches over with his uninjured arm to cradle the broken one against his chest so it doesn’t move when he does. He takes a single tentative step.

  The jolt of pain he is expecting doesn’t come; the broken arm is well-supported. He takes another step, and then another, slowly at first as he gets used to unfamiliar human feet, and then faster as he gains confidence.

  It takes him over half an hour of scrabbling over stone before he reaches the cover of the trees. Yesterday, it would have only taken him a few minutes bounding from one rock to another to cover the same distance.

  He stops and sniffs before he enters the forest. There’s the sharp rich scent of the pine, and the decomposing needles beneath them, the dusty scent of rabbits and mice, and the fresh wind that washes them all with air from higher up the mountain.

  It’s hardly anything at all.

  If he’s ambushed, he won’t smell it coming.

  It’s difficult to find his bearings without his sense of smell.

  The gray-eyed wolf starts limping faster through the trees, trying to concentrate on the terrain around him. All he needs is something that looks familiar so he knows he’s on the right track.

  To his left, he sees a fallen pine. The tree has fallen in a way between two others and made a kind of bridge between them.

  He knows that one. When he was a cub, he and his brother used to come down here and chase each other across it, barking and daring each other not to fall.

  He can’t think of his family now.

  The thought of them is more painful than the spike in his arm. All he needs to think about is getting across the river and to safety, and away from the massacre behind him.

  Past the fallen pine, there should be—

  There it is: a boulder split in two as if it were nothing other than a clod of earth thrown from the sky.

  He remembers his father telling him that the mountains had formed like that when the world was created: great boulders falling and splitting, as the mountains shifted and grew in response to fire beneath the earth.

  The gray-eyed wolf thinks that was a fairy tale, like so many other things his father said.

  Not long after the split boulder, he finds the place he’s looking for.

  This is it. This is the end of the territory.

  The river is too deep and fast-moving to cross on foot. He will have to navigate the boulders sunk into the river like giant stepping stones.

  There are plenty of places downstream where he can navigate the river easily, even walk down it for a time, but they are too far away. He doesn’t know if he is being followed. He needs to cross it now.

  The man walks to the river on soft, tentative feet, the pine needles prickling between his bare toes. He surveys the boulders, trying to think of the best way to approach them.

  At full-strength and as a wolf with four strong legs, it would be a few leaps and he’d be done.

  As a human, he is going to have to jump on two legs, then climb, neither of which he has done in years, and never when injured.

  He’d climbed a few times as a cub with his brother. They’d shift into their soft little human forms and swing in the trees like monkeys until their father growled at them to come down and behave like proper wolves.

  Thinking of his family again makes his heart beat faster, and his eyes begin to burn.

  He doesn’t know if he can make the crossing, but he also can’t go back. He has nowhere to go and he can’t stay here.

  For a moment, he wishes he could just stay here: standing in the middle of the river for the rest of his life, and not have to make any decisions at all.

  He bends in an awkward crouch to try drink from the river. It’s difficult, but he finally manages to work out a way to lap at the water.

  No wonder humans live in their hard little boxes, he thinks. Their bodies are too soft and impractical to live out the open. This is a ridiculous way to drink. His body keeps wanting to tip over into the water.

  The gray-eyed man drinks thirstily. It’s been a while since he’s had water and he’s been on the move for hours.

  The water is too warm. It’s much colder further up the mountain: another reminder that he’s getting further and further away from home.

  He drinks his fill, then carefully steps off of the riverbank and into the warm, brown water. The first boulder is an easy step up, if a big one on human legs.

  Human legs are ridiculous too, he thinks. Considering how long they are, they really should be able to leap higher and further.

  The next boulder will be more difficult. It is further and higher. He takes a deep breath and leaps.

  His weak human legs aren’t powerful enough to make the jump. He tumbles into the fast-moving river below.

  The water sweeps him along, his head dipping under the surface. Water floods his nose and throat, and he is only just able to cough it out and try for a gasping breath before the current drags him down again.

  His leg hits a rock, and he pushes against it trying to get his head above the water but it’s moving too fast. Seconds later, the rock is gone, and there’s nothing but rushing water ahead. The river bobs him along, d
ipping his body underneath the water and then back up as easily and unforgiving as a twig.

  There’s no time to shift. No time to think. No time to do anything other than desperately try to keep his head above water.

  His body hits something hard and stays there. The gray-eyed wolf splutters and blinks. River water rushes past his face, but it’s no longer swallowing him whole.

  He’s caught against a fallen tree, as water streams past him. His body is stuck firm against water-sodden branches, and despite the pressure from the water behind, it’s something of a respite.

  He splutters and coughs, and gets his breath back.

  The tree is enormous and spans the river. Its roots are broken and exposed where the riverbank has washed away. The gray-eyed man is pushed up against one of the upper branches, his uninjured arm slung over the wood, the bad one limp at his side. Pain flows with the water as it tries to push it forward.

  His legs are being shoved against another invisible branch under the water, but his feet are free. The way to the bank is clear, but he has only one arm and the water is hard at his back. If the gray-eyed wolf loses his grip and falls beneath the water, it will push him against the swollen branches and he won’t have the strength to pull himself up.

  He raises his upper arm a fraction, enough that when he moves it, the rough bark scraps at his soft human skin. He moves it again, shifting his body with it as it goes.

  He keeps moving, an inch at a time, until the muscles in his arm are hot and painful with use and he has to stop and rest, panting. As soon as he thinks he can do so safely, he lifts the arm up again and moves another inch.

  The sun passes overhead as he works. By the time he reaches the broken roots, it’s full dark and a cold wind has blown up, chilling his wet skin where earlier the sun burned it.

  The gray-eyed wolf is too exhausted to care. He is finally free of the flowing water. He relaxes his burning arm gratefully and lies where he is, tangled in the roots of the fallen tree and lets the darkness take him.