by Kari Gregg
Side by side, they exited the scramble of massive stone tossed by an ancient glacier or possibly by avalanches after the glacier receded. They pushed forward to a flat jut of granite that ended in a steep plummet. Reaching the edge, Arit glanced at his mate, and hope flooded through him when Nick’s awed stare drank in the valley below. He didn’t look at the town, homes marked as brightly lit dots in spite of the storm creeping into the lower elevations, as Benjic would—with a thirst for more power and calculating greed. He didn’t see the people as Arit or his dad did, either, with warmth and affection. Not yet.
Nick surveyed his tribe, Arit’s people, the ones Arit loved and worked daily to serve, with thankfulness. With respect and infinite yearning, not for his own selfish concerns but for the betterment of everyone below. Arit felt Nick’s commitment to the tribes as certainly as he knew his own beating heart.
Pity he would abdicate the throne before he had a chance to rule. Nick would be fantastic, a leader of strength and compassion, one who genuinely cared about and wanted only to improve the lives of his people. With the bond between them intensifying, Arit knew that much.
Arit hated politics. He’d matured enough to recognize his loathing of statecraft and governance was tied to his resentment of his sire who thrived on capitol power games, but his contempt was nevertheless merited. The elders governing the tribes had lost touch with the people. Capitol elites worked to gain wealth and position instead of fighting for the shifters in the outer territories like those struggling below to obtain enough fuel to survive every harsh winter. Rather than freely trading with the lands of men, the council had closed borders and thereby destroyed much-needed jobs. They claimed cutting off the tribes from men protected shifters from post-war violence and bigotry as well as preserved their bloodlines, but strategists in the capitol didn’t pay the price. Arit’s people had, with each dangerous trip to smuggle goods through the Urals to survive.
When Arit senses spiked and shudders overwhelmed the white wolf next to him, he wasn’t surprised at Nick’s shift to his human form. Although the fierce cold would forbid lingering as men, Arit focused to bring his human mind forward, too, and because Nick was his match in skill at transitioning from one form to another, they both knelt in the dusting of snow moments later. Arit panted through the ache of his bones resetting, shivering at wind slicing into skin barren of insulating fur.
Nick trembled, too, but he stumbled to his feet, his hand grasping the locket still encircling his neck while his attention fixed to the valley below.
Gritting his teeth, Arit stood as well.
As a shifter, his visual acuity was sharper than a human’s even while Arit was in his human form, but his vision was strongest as a wolf. Where before the overlook had revealed dens in the town and traffic moving on the streets, now he could only make out dim pricks of light through the storm where Arit knew homes must be. Blowing snow didn’t hinder Nick from staring, gasping at the cold.
Arit moved behind him, wrapping his arms around Nick’s abdomen so they could share body heat. “Okay?” he asked, voice still rough from the shift. The word tumbled from his lips sounding more like a growl.
Nick shuddered. Nodded. “This,” he said, the human word quavering as he also struggled to emerge from his shift. His grip on the locket tightened until his knuckles shone white. He lifted his other hand and gestured to the valley. “This,” he repeated.
Luckily, Nick didn’t need to speak for Arit to understand. The bond building between them was new, tenuous—so fragile the link could be broken as easily as the inexpensive chain of the prince’s locket, but the shared sense of affection vibrated between them no less for that. Arit’s people would’ve been Nick’s tribe if not for the war. The executions hadn’t stripped the crown prince of the family he’d been born into and that alone. The murders and subsequent flight to safety had robbed Nick of the tribe he would’ve and should’ve belonged to—the family of his future. Losing his tribe, and at such a young age…Arit shied from imagining Nick’s groundlessness, his grief. The loss still echoed like a gaping maw inside Nick. Arit felt the void in Nick and craved filling it with all the love and security that had been stolen away. He stroked Nick’s bare stomach and rested his chin on Nick’s shoulder, enjoying the crisp scent of lemony pine wafting from his mate’s pale blond hair at his nape. “Yes.”
Nick gulped. His teeth chattered, but his hand lowered to cover and squeeze Arit’s forearm twined around his waist in silent acknowledgment. They studied the lights from homes and the people gathered round them below for short minutes. The storm prevented them from staying in this form. Nick dipped his chin, and Arit released him. Stepped back.
At least escaping the brutal cold hurried their shifts. This time frequent practice won the race, and Arit pushed to stand on four paws first. Nick wasn’t much longer, though, scrabbling up from the hard slab of stone that provided the overlook. The white wolf gazed again over the edge. Tail wagging, Arit loosed a beckoning bark that dragged Nick’s attention to him. Arit grinned, paw stamping the rock beneath him in wry challenge.
Shooting one last glance to the town, the white wolf pivoted and yipped in reply.
Arit sprang, racing into the paths through the jumbled rock, joy lighting him up as the scrape of claws on stone indicated his mate had rejoined the chase.
The storm strengthened, the flurries gently drifting from the sky intensifying to sheets of snowflakes falling in fat clumps. Wolf or human forms didn’t matter when weather conditions worsened; basic safety and respect for the difficult environment forbade any to risk running and playing longer. Arit streaked down the mountain, swerving to throw off Nick’s ardent pursuit because they both relished the game.
As they neared the flickering reds and oranges from fires on the lodge patio and the milling crowd of staff and guests collecting around those fires for warmth, nothing had changed.
Not really.
Nick tempted Arit. His scent. The unsubtle pull of the bond developing between them. The handsome beauty of muscle bunching under his pelt of glorious white fur. Arit wanted all of it, wanted Nick desperately. The sizzle of desire coursed through him faster than their wild sprint from the overlook and set Arit’s heart to pounding.
None of it made yielding to this mating heat smart.
In the final stretch, the white wolf zoomed by Arit to reach the lodge first and skidded on the slick stone as soon as his paws met the flat plateau of the rear patio. The others jumped out of Nick’s way, some in human form but others still wolfen. Those in animal form instinctively lowered their gazes, hunched to make themselves smaller. A few sank to the stony ground to show their bellies. Slowing his descent, Arit watched them, the capitol shifters in Nick’s tour group but also his staff responding to Nick. Arit’s people scrambled to show the white wolf submission, respect.
Because they were Nick’s people, too.
From the dark edge of the patio, Arit paused to take in what his eyes told him. To accept the showy displays.
To wonder.
His ears flattened when he spotted Benjic, too, angling his snout to bare his throat, but despite the snarl climbing up Arit’s throat, he grudgingly allowed his sire had been appointed elder to the Urals. He and his security team bore the markings of this tribe alongside Arit’s staff. Eyes narrowing, Arit swept the crowd and only then realized Benjic hadn’t brought the red wolves from the southern plains or the brown wolves common to the heavily forested interior from the capitol as part of his entourage.
The shifters in the capitol must be deluded to go through with the madness of arranging Nick’s abdication ceremony, because here, on this patio, the white wolf ended the crazy and wrong rumors purporting him to be an omega—and a damaged omega at that. All recognized him as not only an alpha but gave him the deference due their high alpha.
Nick may not be an emperor yet.
Tonight, his people—the tribe he’d been promised to as a boy—made him a king, though.
Chapte
r Seven
Despite Benjic’s urging to wallow in the lush amenities at the lodge, the tour group moved to the upper camp the next morning. Unpredictable in the Urals, fierce but often brief, the storm that had swept from the mountaintops into the valley last night had dissipated, leaving a scant dusting of white in the lower elevations the sun soon melted. Higher up, Arit’s paws moved over a thin blanket of fluffy powder disturbed by game trails from rabbits, cats, and elk uncowed by the early season storm.
Arit loved the snow, too. Made hunting easier. Where the hooves of deer broke through snow and could bog a deer’s fleeing escape, shifter paws were broad enough to skim the surface. Deer were faster than wolves. Capitol fools knew that. On flat plains in the valley, Arit stood no chance of taking one down even if he selected the best of his hunters to work with him, but high in the mountains? With snow still clinging to the rocky ground? Their odds of success wouldn’t get much better.
A true son of the Urals, he shook off the cold and huffed out a breath, signaling Jesyn to lead those eager to hunt from the tour group to follow as Arit headed left to track a herd of roe deer. Normally, Arit wouldn’t set such an ambitious goal for tourists freshly arrived from the capitol. Many from the cities struggled to shift. Taking down larger prey as a pack was too challenging for them, whereas preying on the plentiful rabbits that made the mountains their home built confidence and skill. With the help of Jesyn and another guide to organize this bunch, Arit couldn’t resist testing the crown prince’s mettle, though.
So far, the white wolf had exceeded Arit’s expectations. First by an avid hunger to hunt that far surpassed Nick’s desire for the lodge’s cozy comforts and again, with Nick’s acquiescence to more experienced guides leading the group, Nick had proven himself an alpha wolf worthy of the honorific. Because Arit didn’t suffer fools gladly, he didn’t tolerate arrogant defiance from alpha wolves too insecure in their natural role as leaders to yield to those who knew the area and its prey populations best. Though Nick continued to stubbornly reject Arit’s advice to remove the enigmatic locket for shifting, the white wolf hadn’t balked at surrendering the lead to Arit and his guides. He’d suffered greater difficulties from Benjic who had split off from the pack to hunt by himself rather than follow his son.
Arit hoped he was hunting anyway. If he was meeting with one of his spies in the valley, Arit would have zero problems kicking his unwelcome ass back to the capitol, but he didn’t look forward to dealing with his dad’s wrath over Arit’s contempt for his sire afterward.
Downwind, Arit circled the herd of deer he scented ahead, and his guides distributed the pack around him. Arit, Jesyn, and his second guide, Chree, worked as a unit. They could read one another in the flick of an ear, the position of a tail. The newcomers lacked such familiarity, and a brief stay in the Urals wouldn’t improve that much. The co-owner and staff of Shifter Frontiers were accustomed to shepherding novice hunters and inexperienced packs at least. They’d take down a deer this evening. Arit could already taste the hot blood on his tongue.
Once everyone was in position, Arit crept forward. When he spotted a rack of antlers interrupting the horizon, he sank down. Frigid snow chilled his belly, but he, and the wolves accompanying him, got low. No one broke a twig under their paws or slid in the rocks, sounds that would have alerted the herd of danger. Gratification that his confidence in these shifters had been well-placed filled Arit as they moved closer.
Closer.
Closer still.
He didn’t halt until the pack was as near the herd as possible without risking a mistake that would rob them of fresh game for their evening meal. The others silently stopped, too. To his extreme right, Jesyn grinned at Arit. Young, cocky as only Shifter Frontier guides could be, Arit’s employee jerked his snout at a buck at the edge of the herd. Only a four-pointer, the deer was skinny and would grow skinnier yet if Arit and other predators didn’t thin the population before food sources depleted. The herd had already come pretty far up the mountain in search of buds and bark to munch if they were near Arit’s upper camp. The young buck favored its right front leg, an injury sealing its doom. Arit twitched an ear at Jesyn in agreement—the buck was their target. Arit lifted his muzzle at it to signal the shifters to his left.
The white wolf patiently waited. Gorgeous, Nick blended with the snow-crusted mountainside. If Arit had been sure of his hunting prowess, Arit might have selected him as the lead wolf in this hunt for that reason alone. Curious locket glinting in the sun, the prince’s fur otherwise camouflaged the crown prince and might have bought them precious distance to their prey, but Arit wouldn’t gamble the hunt’s success on a stranger’s self-control, especially an unknown wolf who had purportedly eschewed shifting since early childhood.
Pity. With the open-ended trip the group had booked, Arit would have opportunity aplenty to challenge the crown prince and assess how readily the white wolf took to hunting, though. Soon. Arit swore he’d see him in action soon.
In the meantime, he dug his paws into the slippery snow, bracing to spring to the attack. Around him, the others mirrored his stance. Heart thumping a happy staccato as adrenaline dumped into him, Arit hesitated. Poised on the cusp of running the deer down, he waited because he simply could not resist pushing the crown prince’s patience further. The white wolf didn’t break, and when Arit glanced at the other guests, he realized the others didn’t leap at the deer because of Nick. Arit and his guides might have organized this hunt, but the group didn’t follow Shifter Frontier’s guides. They looked to Nick, high alpha of the Urals and their crown prince. The white wolf.
Attention narrowed on Nick, none of the others would move a hair follicle without the white wolf’s permission. Arit, Jesyn, and Chree weren’t leading this hunt, after all. The last emperor was, and the son of a bitch knew it. Nick dipped his snout in acknowledgment, setting Arit’s teeth on edge.
Why Arit had ever imagined mating another alpha would be appealing was a mystery.
The herd shuffled nervously, sensing danger despite the still quiet of the pack. Wallowing in his ire at Nick would have to wait. The white wolf, if no other, had paused to follow Arit’s lead at least, and Nick’s deference to Arit would have to be enough.
With a quick huff, Arit bunched his haunches, rear claws piercing the frozen dirt, and he launched forward. Pulse racing as he gained ground, he shot toward the deer. The rest of the pack snapped into motion, streaking in an arc toward the focal point of the four-pointer.
Roe deer were bountiful in the Urals. Fast, too. As expected, the herd alerted and sprang to flee in a matter of heartbeats after Arit triggered the chase, but also as anticipated, their speed was hampered by the rocky terrain and the snow delivered by last night’s storm. The thunder of their hoofbeats rivaled the pounding of Arit’s heart in his ears, joined by the eager barking of less disciplined guests. Rolan, who Arit had judged most capable in the group, raced from a rocky ledge above the site the deer had chosen for their meal and speared into the herd, disrupting the flight response as Arit and the others reached the outer edges of their escaping prey. Barks, yips, and snarls punctuated the thud of fleeing hooves.
Chaos. Beautiful chaos.
Most of the deer readily maneuvered around Rolan and outpaced the pack. Arit didn’t care about the fleeing herd. What mattered was the four-pointer’s stumble.
He didn’t try to smother his satisfied growl as the pack worked as a unit, dodging hooves and gouging antlers, to cull the injured deer from the rest. The animal panted, chest heaving with the effort of keeping up. Weakened, the deer still would’ve been faster than any shifter on flat ground. This part of the Urals was jagged with stony outcroppings and boulders, though. They ran so far and fast Arit’s heart threatened to explode with exertion, but victory came with the four-pointer’s increasing distance from the herd.
Isolating their prey, however, was no guarantee of a successful hunt. Arit’s growl reminded the others to be wary of the animal’s kicking hooves, a
blow that could break bones. Stabbing antlers could still pierce and slash. Shifting repaired some of the damage, but Arit didn’t relish the idea of informing the tribes he’d managed to put the crown prince or his brother in the hospital. Relief shuddered through him at Nick’s cagy wariness while they circled the buck and Rolan’s caution, too. As one, they harassed the deer, darting in when the animal was most vulnerable to bite then dashing free of pummeling hooves. Arit drew first blood, a deep bite in the meat of the buck’s left haunch that streamed red. The coppery scent tickled Arit’s nostrils and stirred the pack’s greedy excitement.
With each foot of ground and every wound they landed, the deer tired.
Finally, the buck tripped, going down on one leg. Braced for just such an eventuality, Arit leapt forward and clamped his jaws around the deer’s muzzle. The bite wasn’t a death blow, but hanging on and thereby neutralizing the risk from the buck’s antlers, Arit provided a chance to make the kill.
Nick seized it. While the others ripped at the barrel of the buck’s body, Nick sprinted toward Arit and bending low, tore out the deer’s throat. Blood gushed, metallic in the frigid air, splashing Arit’s fur. He released the deer’s nose. Retreated. No point risking a kick during the beast’s death throes.
Some capitol shifters couldn’t take the brutality of hunting large game, and Arit tried not to hold their queasiness against them. A few locals in the valley also found the most effective strategies employed by packs bringing down a deer or elk disturbing and not a little repugnant. They wanted a clean death. Too bad that was too dangerous. Smarter to run prey down, exhaust it, bleed it out. Better to let a big target die of shock or blood loss. Messier. But safer.