Fierce Cowboy Wolf

by Kait Ballenger

  “Shit,” a male voice swore.

  In the light of the heat lamp, Brent, one of their two newest packmembers, stood at the end of her gun’s barrel, his hands lifted in the universal sign of surrender and his eyes wide with alarm.

  Sierra swore, lowering her gun and pocketing it in her holster. “Sorry, cowgirls have itchy trigger fingers. You snuck up on me.”

  In truth, she had more of an itchy trigger finger than usual. Following the insurgent’s appearance on the ranch, the elite warriors, herself included, had been running intel on who had orchestrated the failed attack. With their plans for tomorrow in place, the wedding and accompanying surveillance would present a singular opportunity to catch the perpetrators.

  Their plan would ensure it.

  Thus far, they’d confirmed that both wolves who’d come for the packmaster had been rogues, hired by someone to orchestrate the hit, and tonight, much to her nerves, Maverick would be tying up any lose ends with the Execution Underground. There was little doubt in her mind the human hunters hadn’t worked with a rogue wolf—or any wolf, for that matter—to orchestrate the attack. They disliked their species too much for that, plus having Maverick dead and no chance of renegotiating the treaty would have been a disadvantage to them. They needed the Grey Wolves and the Seven Range Pact patrolling the vamps as much as the Pact needed to be protected from the human hunters’ policing.

  Maverick had insisted he had to meet with the Billings division’s lead hunter, Quinn Harper, anyway to tie up loose ends, to—with any luck—renegotiate the treaty and cover their bases. His attention to detail, in all aspects of his life, other things included, was quickly becoming evident to Sierra.

  Other than a few vague leads that had led them nowhere, their only hint of who was behind the attacks lay in the hope that Blaze would be able to use the AI capabilities of the pack’s computers to extract data he’d gathered from the session in the caves. Try as she had, though Sierra recalled more than she had before, the last few seconds before she came to were little but vague details, and the only other lead they had hinged upon the whispered words of a madman.

  For the Seven Range Pact.

  She’d turned the words over in her head countless times over the last few days, questioning which of their Seven Range Pact allies the message had come from, but none of the theories they’d come up with made any sense. The black bears, the grizzlies, the bobcats, the coyotes, the Canadian lynx, the cougars. Hell, not even their Canadian brothers of the Yellowknife Pack. But one aspect remained clear: there was a traitor in their midst. Someone had helped the insurgent past the pack’s guards; that much was certain.

  And tomorrow, they intended to flush that traitor out.

  Brent cleared his throat, drawing her back from her thoughts. “I saw the stall gate open, and I didn’t want its resident to make an escape,” he said, glancing down. He was shy, quiet. He scratched a hand over his short-shaved hair.

  During her service, Sierra had been used to the wolves in her ranks keeping their hair like that. Now, the style seemed out of place, foreign. But despite her initial opposition about allowing former Wild Eight members into the pack, Wes had been right, at least in this instance. Brent had assimilated well.

  “Sorry, I forgot Wes had you working out here with him.”

  “It’s easy to forget when things are going your way.”

  Sierra turned her head to the side as she examined the wolf in front of her. She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. There were bound to be some awkward moments, considering they once were enemies.

  “Look, I know we didn’t exactly meet on the best of terms”—she’d dragged him in unconscious and in cuffs, after all—“but now that you’re pack, we can—”

  Another chill ran down her spine as she met Brent’s eyes, the same sort of chill she’d gotten two days prior when she’d found yet another hateful note in her mailbox. They’d been worse, more frequent as of late, though she still hadn’t told anyone about them because she didn’t want their pity or their concern, but the sound of approaching footsteps against the concrete and the face that emerged from the darkness were explanation enough.

  Silas stepped forward from the shadows in the opposite direction, forcing her to turn toward him.

  Sierra let out a low growl. “What are you doing out here?”

  Silas frowned, his gaze flicking over her shoulder. “Chasing the demons away.”

  Was Silas suggesting…? Sierra turned back toward Brent, only to find that the other wolf had ghosted her upon Silas’s arrival. She frowned. No, that couldn’t be the case. Brent was more than shy. Maybe even a bit cowardly? Just as well.

  The true threat stood in front of her.

  She pulled Randy’s stall gate shut with the metallic scrape of the iron latch before she faced Silas again. He lingered in the shadows, watching the patch of darkness behind her left shoulder in a way that made her uncomfortable.

  “If you have no reason to be out here, then you should head back to the compound.” She said this with every bit of authority her position now afforded her. These days, when she made an order, even the males listened, not only out of fear of her but because the position had earned her the respect. The thought instantly soured in her stomach. She knew she deserved her position without a doubt, but somehow her deal with Maverick felt like cheating the system.

  Could she ever feel worthy when the pack recognized her worth?

  Silas stepped from the shadows, easing himself forward until he came into the full light. “Actually, I do have a reason to be here: to speak with you.”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.” Sierra moved to make her exit, but he blocked her path.

  “It can’t wait.”

  Sierra snarled, forcing her eyes to flash to her wolf. She’d taken the asshole down before, and she could do it again. It hadn’t been easy capturing Silas, but once she had, the vitriol that spilled from his lips had promised retribution. She dared him to try her.

  “What do you know of the attempt on the packmaster’s life?” Silas’s tone was a low, threatening growl, but Sierra refused to be intimidated.

  “What I do or don’t know doesn’t concern you.” She moved to push past him, but he caught her by the wrist.

  Gripping onto where his hand met hers, she pressed down on his metacarpals, shoving his wrist backward before she pulled her gun for a second time this evening. She pressed the hard length of the barrel beneath his chin and clicked off the safety.

  “Touch me again and you’ll be buried six feet under before sunrise,” she snarled.

  The grim expression on Silas’s face spread into a twisted grin as he laughed. “Take your aim, she-wolf.” He leaned into the barrel, pushing the underside of his chin harder against it. “I’ve got nothing to lose.” Something about the wild gleam in his eye and that wide-toothed grin made her believe it.

  She raked her gaze over his features. A shame. In another life that hadn’t left him scarred in deep, subtle ways anyone with eyes could see, he might have been handsome. Instead, all she saw there was brokenness.

  “Go on then, take your shot,” he growled, egging her on.

  Had she been her brother or any of the male warriors, she might have dared to, but she didn’t need to resort to violence to prove anything—only to protect herself and those she cared for.

  With a rough shove of her gun barrel, she pushed away from him. Tucking her weapon back into her holster, she breezed past the stall block. Her business here was finished. She didn’t need to linger a moment longer.

  “You may have brought the Grey Wolf packmaster to heel, but you might ask yourself who would want to do the same to you,” Silas called after her.

  She didn’t slow her pace until she reached the edge of the forest.

  As she did, she shifted into her wolf, the sound of Silas’s laughter still ringing
in her ears for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 22

  Human-style weddings were superfluous. Maverick tugged at the bow tie of his tuxedo, mumbling several colorful curses as he attempted to loosen the garment’s stranglehold on his neck. It’d been bad enough that he’d been forced to wear the thing a year ago for Wes and Naomi’s nuptials, the result of which had sparked a trend of human-style wedding ceremonies among the pack.

  When he’d placed Maeve in charge of the wedding plans, he’d known better than to envision something small, but he’d still anticipated something similar to when he and Rose had been wed. They’d had their ceremony beneath the moon at the crest of one of the many ridges plunging down into devastating canyons that comprised the mountain peaks of Yellowstone. It hadn’t been small. Most of Wolf Pack Run, the subpacks, even some of Rose’s Arctic wolf cousins had been in attendance. But it had been simple and uncomplicated.

  This was anything but.

  “You look uncomfortable.” Colt stood at his side. With his hands shoved into his pockets and that handsome mug of his, he didn’t just wear his tux; he looked as if he’d been born in it.

  “I am uncomfortable.” Maverick scowled, tugging at his bow tie again.

  “You’re not allowed to be.” Colt stepped toward him, working to adjust the garment to the correct tightness as any best man should. “Not when you’re marrying my sister.”

  Despite Colt’s request to walk her down the aisle, Sierra had been insistent that, brother or not, she was not a commodity that any man could give away. Since Colt wouldn’t be tasked with that responsibility, who Maverick’s best man would be had never even been called into question.

  “I know you’re not pleased about it,” Maverick grumbled low enough that only Colt could hear.

  These days, it wasn’t often that he acknowledged that he and Colt had once been brothers, equals. That’d been before he’d been forced to accept the role he’d been born into, before every aspect of his life—his responsibilities, his duties, his family, and his friendships—had changed.

  As packmaster, it was his duty to lead without question, and more often than not, that meant casting aside the doubts, emotions, and feelings of others in favor of having confidence in his own judgment. But he refused to allow this to be one of those times.

  Colt continued to adjust Maverick’s bow tie, moving the material back and forth between his fingers. “I wasn’t, at first,” he admitted. “I know we don’t mention it often, but I still remember what you were like before you became packmaster, and the thought of that same training foot soldier I called a brother, who stole that little subpack she-wolf—Cecelia was her name, remember her?—right out from under my nose and kissed her out in the damn barn no less, gave me a moment’s pause.”

  Maverick cracked a grin. “You never stood a chance with her.”

  Colt shook his head. “No, I didn’t. She clearly had more of a thing for the strong, silent type than a true charmer.” He flashed Maverick a wry grin before it soon faded. “You could have told me, you know, how you felt about her.”

  Maverick swallowed hard. He knew without a doubt that Colt wasn’t referring to a passing fling from their boyhood anymore.

  “You could tell her, too, Mav,” his friend whispered. “I’m no fool. I know you only offered to marry her so she could get her position. But you’ve been lighter these past few weeks than I’ve seen you in years. I was there in the cave. Lord knows, after Rose, you deserve a damn bit of happiness.”

  Maverick gripped the other man’s shoulder, the emotion caught in his throat, roughening to an even more graveled pitch than usual. “I made a promise to James, and I intend to keep it.”

  Colt released Maverick’s bow tie, finally satisfied with the fit. His eyes cast to the front row of seats where his very pregnant mate sat. “I know from experience that when it comes to love, you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.” He turned his back toward Maverick. “My father’s dead. Don’t let how you feel for my sister die with him.”

  Maverick could have left the conversation at that. But something deep inside his chest compelled him otherwise. “Colt,” he said, not commander or warrior.

  Colt paused, turning back toward him.

  Maverick drew close to his friend, lowering his voice even among the loud din of the pack and the other onlookers in attendance. “Even if I did tell her, after what happened in the cave, I don’t think it’s wise.”

  Colt let out an abrupt bark of a laugh. “This coming from a man who can ignore that I’m not a true Grey Wolf, that his second is his former enemy, and that his sister is in love with a monstrous rogue wolf of a man and still keep her a part of the pack anyway.” Colt chuckled and pulled Maverick into a brotherly hug before shaking his head. “Mav, I say this to you as a friend, as a fellow cowboy, not as my packmaster.” Colt clapped him on the shoulder with a large hand. “If you think my sister won’t help you lead this pack, get your damn head out of the sand.”

  At that moment, the wedding music cued, causing the guests to stand at the bride’s arrival. Maverick and Colt turned toward the center aisle.

  “Good God.” The muttered, horrified words came from her brother.

  “Holy fuck.” That particular gem came from Wes, who stood by Colt’s side.

  “Pipe down, you two,” Maeve hissed, waving her bridesmaid’s bouquet in her hands as she shushed them. There was no doubt in Maverick’s mind that she’d been privy to all this.

  But he knew she wasn’t the architect.

  No. That blame rested solely on the covered shoulders of his bride.

  Wherever she was…beneath it? In it? Under it? He wasn’t certain.

  Maverick released a long sigh as he shook his head.

  Massive layers of the fluffy, itchy material shot out from her torso in all directions. It was everywhere. Jutting from her shoulders. Her chest. Hell, the whole thing expanded in a six-foot puff around her. They could all barely see the woman beneath… Could one even call that monstrosity she was wearing a dress? The music in the loudspeakers played around them, covering the less-than-quiet whispers and gasps from some of the subpack wolves.

  Had they known her, they wouldn’t have been surprised in the least.

  Maverick knew she wanted him to be stunned, to be angry with her. Hell, or at least she expected him to pretend in spite of it all that everything, including her atrocious outfit, was according to plan. But he couldn’t.

  All he could do was laugh at the joke she’d intended for him. The deep-throated, booming chuckle that came from his belly filled the awkward silence beneath the music. As he laughed, from the tearstained edges of his eyes, he thought he saw her grin.

  When she finally reached him, she gazed up at him, large bouquet of roses in hand despite the rooster that was pecking at the excessive rolls of tulle that covered her feet. “How do I look?”

  He forced his chuckles to fade. “Radiant,” he responded, unable to hold back his grin.

  She hit him in the chest with her bouquet. “You mean you’re not angry?”

  “No,” he answered. “I love it.”

  That didn’t seem to be the answer she’d expected, yet she smiled all the same.

  “Where’s your veil?” Maeve whispered.

  Sierra shrugged. “Unfortunately, Randy felt the need to sneeze all over it.”

  Maverick shook his head. Of course he had.

  Her gaze was back on him then, and despite all the tulle she was layered beneath, that easily faded away.

  None of the wedding went according to plan. Although Sierra was the one wearing a godforsaken tulle monstrosity, it was Maverick who kept getting his hair caught on various parts of his suit. His sister had insisted he put it in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and the damn thing kept getting caught on everything. On the buttons. In the bow tie. Hell, even on Sierra when he’d
bent down to retrieve Elvis. She’d insisted the damn bird would be the ring bearer, and of course, the fucking parrot had started to choke on one of the ceremonial rings partway through the whole ordeal, causing Maverick to forget the few truncated vows he’d managed to write. That was likely for the best. He’d never been the kind of cowboy who had a way with words.

  It was somewhere between him pulling the ring out of the choking chicken’s throat and Sierra spouting the diatribe of her own wedding vows about the equality of a man and his wife, interspersed with not-so-subtle jabs about how she expected him not to behave like a stubborn mule, that he realized he was in love with her.

  Not in the past. Though he had been then, too.

  But now.

  He loved her.

  Tulle-covered monstrosity and all. He had to in order to tolerate all the chaos currently surrounding him without so much as a single growl. He hadn’t even blinked when he’d pulled the ring from that glorified-meal-turned-pet’s throat. All he’d known was that he couldn’t have withstood the inevitable tears she’d shed if the ridiculous thing died right there on the altar.

  So yes, he loved her.

  It was a goddamn shame that he only now realized he could have stood up and said it just like this ten years earlier. When they’d been interrupted in the foyer, he should have told her father to take his insistence that he marry Rose and shove it.

  But he hadn’t.

  And if his time as packmaster had taught him anything, it was that his actions had consequences. Grave consequences. And this time was no different.

  Monster. Rose’s harsh accusation pierced through him, but Maverick pushed it aside. He couldn’t think of that now. Of her. Or the consequences of his actions. Not tonight.

  He wouldn’t allow his inner demons to sabotage his last moments with her like this.

  Tonight, he would allow himself this, her, and come morn, he would do what was necessary. For both their sakes. And he’d force himself to forget…