Fighting for Wolves (Shifter Country Wolves Book 3)

by Noir, Roxie

  Shifters shift, he thought, lowering the glass back to the counter, squeezing his temples, his mind running a thousand miles a minute.

  Okay. He shifts and then runs out of there, sticking to the shadows and nobody really takes note of it because Rustvale is a shifter town and there are wolves everywhere.

  And when we were canvassing, we didn’t ask anyone if they’d seen a wolf with pants in its mouth.

  Dane got up, putting his glass in the sink, and walked upstairs as quietly as he could. His phone was still in his pants pocket, and he eased open the bedroom door and tiptoed in, grabbed it, and tiptoed back out.

  Standing in the hallway, he quickly searched for which day trash collection was on Main Street.

  Saturday, starting at 5 a.m.

  According to his phone, it was nearly 3 a.m.

  “Shit,” Dane muttered again, then went back into the room. In the dark, he put his pants back on, then used the screen of his phone to light his way to a halfway respectable looking shirt and socks. On the way out the door, he grabbed his flashlight from the closet.

  As he passed the backseat of his car, he saw a scrap of pink fabric in the back seat. He frowned.

  Then it dawned on him.

  Quickly, he grabbed Grey’s underwear and threw it in the outdoor trash bin.

  At 3:30 in the morning, the intersection of Main and First was dead quiet and dark, lit only by sodium-vapor street lights, their orange glow casting shadows in every direction.

  Dane knew that he was there on a slim chance. Since Shovel had, despite being a dumb idiot, otherwise executed a flawless murder, there was always the possibility that he’d undressed and then shifted, grabbed all his clothes in his mouth, and gone to his house where he’d probably burned them.

  But Shovel was a dumb idiot, and he’d been drunk to boot.

  Dane didn’t think he’d undressed first. He thought that he’d probably just shifted, tearing his clothes apart at the seams. That kind of thing tended to leave scraps everywhere, tiny little pieces that were hard to find, especially if you were drunk, panicking, and in a hurry.

  Dane switched on the high-wattage flashlight, put on a pair of latex gloves, and started methodically going through everything that had collected in the gutters at the side of the road.

  It sucked.

  Cold seeped through his pants as he searched on his hands and knees, going through the sticks and leaves that had fallen into the road. It wasn’t all twigs; Dane sifted through fast food wrappers, scraps of paper he couldn’t identify, clumps of dirt, and even one dirty diaper. Worse, it was slow-going: he had to hold the flashlight with one hand, so he could only root through the trash with one hand.

  For an hour, he didn’t see anyone. He made it up and down the block, nearly a third of the way done with the search area. The knees of his pants were scuffed and disgusting — he hadn’t really thought through what he’d be doing when he’d gotten dressed, so now he was going to have to buy new slacks.

  Isaac owes me, he thought. Maybe he should buy me new pants with that prize money.

  Thirty more minutes passed, then forty-five. One car passed by Dane, still hunched over in the street, then two.

  In the distance, he heard the street sweeper.

  This was a dumb idea, he thought. It’s been two days, I’ll never find a scrap of bloody t-shirt.

  With his frozen fingers, he sifted through the detritus a little faster.

  Then he saw a scrap of something that looked like fabric.

  Excited, Dane grabbed it, holding it up in front of his flashlight, peering at it in the dim light of 5 a.m.

  It could be blood, he thought. He tried not to get excited, but it was impossible. Careful not to touch himself with it, he held it to his nose and inhaled deeply.

  It had been on the ground for a couple of days, but there was no mistaking the smell of blood.

  Shifter blood, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  The street sweeper roared in the distance, and Dane stood, walking to the end of the block, and dialed Ramirez’s home number.

  Moments later, an extremely grumpy voice mumbled something.

  “It’s Sorenson,” Dane said. “Can you call off the street sweeping today? I think I know where to find the evidence we need.”

  Epilogue

  Grey

  Eight Months Later

  Grey’s brain felt a little like the champagne in her glass: fizzy, light, bubbly.

  Definitely drunk.

  “Here’s to Dane, for putting away the bad guys,” said Isaac, lifting his glass over the table. “Rustvale’s most fearsome murder police.”

  Dane half-grinned and half rolled his eyes. This wasn’t his first drink either.

  “Thanks,” he said, a little sheepishly.

  The three of them all drank. Isaac and Dane both finished their glasses, but Grey didn’t, not yet. She was already considerably drunker than either of the men, which wasn’t even fair, because she’d had less to drink.

  She reached out with her fork and snagged another coconut shrimp instead.

  Earlier that day, a jury of his peers had pronounced Shovel, aka Norbert, guilty of the murder of Nicky Grant. Nicky’s mom had cried in the audience, and at the tiny press conference afterwards — Rustvale only had one paper and one TV station — Dane’s boss had publicly stated that Dane had been the one to solve the case.

  So they were at a steakhouse, drinking champagne and eating fancy shrimp, and Grey was having a very, very good time.

  “So what’s next?” she asked, twisting her glass in her fingers. “You gonna move to the big city and get a TV show made about you?” she teased.

  Dane scoffed, pouring himself more champagne from the bottle.

  “No thanks,” he said. “I’m happy chasing down vandals and shaking my finger at high school kids for loitering.”

  “Oh,” said Isaac, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

  “Come on, no phones,” said Grey, taking another sip of her champagne.

  Beneath the table, she slipped off one high heel and nuzzled her toes against his ankle.

  “Put your phone down,” she whispered, sounding more than a little drunk.

  “I think we’re gonna be rolling her out of here by the time we’re done,” Dane stage-whispered to Isaac.

  Isaac pulled out his phone and was glancing at it, still smirking at Grey.

  “For a lady who had a gambling problem, you sure can’t hold your liquor,” he teased.

  “Stop it,” said Grey, inching her foot up his calf. “Can so.”

  “Stop playing footsie with me and tell me what the hell the superintendent meant by this email,” Isaac said.

  A couple of months ago, he’d started an after-school wrestling program aimed at shifter kids. Grey had helped a lot, putting him in touch with the people in the school system, and the two of them had ended up co-organizing the thing. Sometimes, Dane helped out with coaching.

  If Isaac still missed fighting, he hadn’t said anything, but Grey thought that coaching the kids was helping with that.

  “C’mere,” Isaac said, gesturing her closer so she could read the email on his phone.

  Hi Isaac,

  Thursday at 4 p.m. will work nicely for me as well.

  Best,

  Burt Hunterton

  Rustvale County School Superintendent

  “It sounds like you’ve got a meeting Thursday at four,” Grey said. “Did you really need me to—”

  She stopped when she saw Isaac’s face, grinning down at her.

  “What?” she insisted, glancing at Dane.

  He was grinning too.

  “What’s going on?” Grey insisted, then saw that both of them were looking from her plate to each other.

  Then she realized that there was a box on her plate. A small, white box.

  Grey clapped her hands to her mouth so she didn’t scream.

  Is it too soon? she thought frantically. We haven’t even been together a year yet.r />
  She swallowed.

  But when you know, you know, and this is it, she thought.

  Her hands trembling, she reached for the box, snapping the lid open carefully.

  Inside was a pair of earrings, in the shape of tiny silver wolves. Her heart plummeted, even though she tried to not show it on her face.

  Oh, she thought. I guess it’s too soon.

  “Thanks!” she said, trying to sound thrilled, even though she was sure she wasn’t hiding her disappointment very well. “I love them!”

  She turned the tiny wolves in her fingers, trying to blink back tears.

  I guess I really want them to propose, she realized. Up until that point, she hadn’t given it a lot of thought, but Grey was far, far more disappointed than she wanted to let on.

  She fumbled with the small silver wolves, trying to get the earrings out of the box despite being at least two sheets to the wind.

  Don’t show them that you’re disappointed, she reprimanded herself. They’re guys, it probably didn’t even occur to them that it looked like a ring box.

  Also, it’s been eight months. Just because you’re sure about them doesn’t mean you have to get married already.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” said Dane.

  Grey looked up, only to realize he was talking to Isaac and she had no idea what was going on.

  “All right, all right,” Isaac said.

  Then he pulled another small box out of his pocket.

  He popped the lid open, revealing a gorgeous, sparkling diamond ring inside.

  “Marry us?” he said.

  This time, Grey let out a little shriek.

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  Or, keep reading for a sneak peek at Uncaging Wolves (Shifter Country Wolves #4)...

  “We’re all wolves here,” Chase growled.

  Scarlet’s been a little too tied up to meet her true mates. Actually, she’s been getting reformed... in prison. Now that she’s free, she’s sworn that she’ll leave her old life behind. She’s got a steady place to live, a good job, and she’s minding the rules of her parole.

  Maybe she’d be more convincing if she didn’t immediately sneak out of the house and head to The Den, a rough shifter bar. That’s where she meets two smoking hot, totally irresistible wolves, lies about who she is, and ends the night with quite a bang.

  Wolf shifter mates Gavin and Chase have been on the straight and narrow for years, though they weren’t always so squeaky clean. On a night out at their favorite bar, they meet Sarah, the shifter woman of their dreams. They’re held hostage by her gray eyes and dangerous spark, and they can’t resist her, even when she disappears without saying goodbye. They have to find her. She’s the one, their fated mate.

  That is, until Sarah shows up at Gavin's office. Except Sarah’s real name is Scarlet, and she’s on parole - and that makes her Gavin’s newest charge.

  Can Chase and Gavin forgive Scarlet’s lies - and forgive her for who she used to be? Or will Scarlet fade back into her old ways, losing her mates and her freedom in the bargain?

  Get it now!

  Or turn the page for a sneak peek at Chapter 1...

  Uncaging Wolves (Shifter Country Wolves #4)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Scarlet

  On the opposite side of the room, the judge sat behind his plastic folding table, flanked on one side by the court reporter and on the other by a man in a suit. Scarlet didn’t know what the man in the suit was doing there, and she didn’t care.

  The judge adjusted his reading glasses, a chain draped around his neck, and opened a crisp manila folder.

  Scarlet’s hands started to shake. She swallowed, forcing herself to sit up straight in the metal folding chair, lacing her fingers together.

  The judge seemed to be reading forever, slowing flipping over page after page with his fat white fingers.

  This is just another day for him, Scarlet realized. He got to work at nine and this evening, he’ll go home and eat dinner and watch TV.

  It’s not his parole hearing, after all.

  For just a moment, the sun broke through the clouds outside and cast rectangles of light on the linoleum floor of the all-purpose room at the Cascadia State Women’s Penitentiary. Scarlet, her lawyer, and an advocate sat at one long folding table, the judge ten feet away at another table, facing them. Two prison guards flanked the doors.

  Scarlet forced herself to take another deep breath in, a calming technique she’d read about in one of the psychology books in the prison library.

  “Scarlet Reynolds,” the judge finally said, sending a bolt of pure anxiety through her.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she responded. Her voice didn’t come out right, and she cleared her throat.

  “You’ve made an excellent case for parole,” he went on, looking at her over his glasses. “Model prisoner, cooperating with the court on the matter of your family members.”

  Scarlet felt like she couldn’t breathe, but she forced her chest to keep expanding and falling.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. Her voice didn’t waver, but she could hear that it was pitched about an octave higher than normal.

  “Do you fully understand the terms of parole?” he asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she said.

  “If granted, you will be released into the custody of your brother Trevor and his mates Austin and Sloane. Within three days, you must present yourself to the Ponderosa County Probation Office. I understand that you have an offer of employment at the Sweet Dreams Bakery in Rustvale, Cascadia?”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor.”

  Scarlet could feel tears starting behind her eyes as her throat closed up.

  Don’t cry, she thought. Not yet. Cry when you’re actually out.

  He took his glasses off and folded them in front of her file folder, looking at her with serious eyes.

  “And you’re willing to abide by the laws of parole?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Scarlet said. She felt like a million ants were crawling right under her skin, as a combination of fear, anxiety, and panic shot through her.

  He nodded once.

  “I hereby grant your petition for parole, in recognition of cooperation with the court, and in light of model prisoner behavior.”

  He handed her folder to the man next to him, who stamped something on it.

  “Thank you,” Scarlet said. She barely got it out before she found herself hunched over, her forehead on the cold, hard plastic of the folding table, tears running down her face. She couldn’t stop herself from sobbing, her face in her hands, her whole body shaking like a leaf.

  The judge cleared his throat quietly, and she sat up again, doing her best to control herself.

  “You’ll be released in about seventy-two hours, once all the paperwork is finished,” the judge said. Now his voice was less formal, a little softer.

  Scarlet couldn’t speak, only nod. She wiped her eyes with her fingers, then dried her hands on her bright orange prison uniform.

  “Case dismissed,” the judge said, and Scarlet’s lawyer stood. After a moment, she did as well, and then followed him blindly from the room, past the two guards.

  It’s over, she thought. It’s finally over, thank God.

  For three days, Scarlet was virtually afraid to speak, move, or even think. Suddenly, now that freedom — or relative freedom — was so close, it seemed like the smallest slight could tear it away from her, so she spent as much time as possible in the library, doing her best to be completely invisible.

  The day came. The guards gave her a cardboard box, and she put her few belongings into it: letters from the outside, drawings from her niece and nephew. A good luck charm from Maria, her only friend on the inside, who’d passed on the ugly wooden carving of a dolphin when she’d been released a year ago.

  Then they led her through the halls, two of them, to a sm
all, windowless room where the clothes she’d worn when she got there sat, folded neatly, on a table. Scarlet changed into them, noting how they fit her a little looser now.

  She walked through the visitation room and to the lobby, where she’d stood four years ago and handed over her cell phone, her keys, even her hairpins. Everything that had been in her pockets when she’d been arrested along with her mother, father, brother, and most of the Ponderosa wolf pack.

  Her brother glanced up and stood. Scarlet gave one last look to the impassive guards before taking a step forward, then another step, and then suddenly she was in Trevor’s arms and he squeezed her so hard she thought he might break her, the cardboard box crumpling between them.

  She hugged back.

  “You came,” she said.

  “I said I’d come,” he said. “When have I lied to you?”

  Scarlet closed her eyes and, for the first time in years, let herself think that everything might be okay.

  Trevor drove her across the state in companionable near-silence. The Women’s Penitentiary was clear across Cascadia, closer to the ocean than to Ponderosa Country, and it was a four and a half hour drive. Scarlet couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and spent most of the ride glued to the window of the sedan, just watching the scenery go by.

  It had been a long time since she’d seen trees this big in person, let alone mountains. Let alone truck stops or gas stations or fast food restaurants, and for a while, she let herself feel the pure joy of being on the outside at last.

  Finally, she recognized landmarks. The big neon sign for Pat’s diner, the ski runs high on the mountains, shut down for the summer. The sign that said RUSTVALE: 15 MILES. The Timber Creek ranch was only thirty minutes outside town.