Fierce Cowboy Wolf

by Kait Ballenger

  That he was completely, madly, inexplicably, and crazy in love with his wife.

  Near the end of the ceremony, once they’d exchanged rings per Sierra’s request—his in great need of cleaning after being lodged down a rooster’s esophagus—they took their blood oath. The rings Sierra had requested were more tokens than jewelry, since once they shifted into wolf form, the rings would end up somewhere on the mountainside before night’s end. So when they muddled their way through this part of the ceremony, the only part that was a repeat of what he’d been through with Rose, it was no surprise, considering he’d already realized he was in love with her, that everything about the blood oath with Sierra was different.

  Nothing with her ever went according to plan, did it?

  With Rose, there had been little significance in the moment, other than the finality of knowing that he was entering into a marriage he never would have chosen for himself in the first place. The mark on his palm hadn’t left so much as a scar.

  But Sierra’s would. He’d given her a silver blade for that sole purpose.

  “Do you have any last words?” asked Wes, who was both the groomsman and acting as the officiant of the ceremony.

  Dakota, who stood directly behind Sierra as her maid of honor, buried her face in her hands as Maeve hissed, “That’s what humans say at funerals, not weddings.”

  “Actually, I think that’s what undertakers say at an execution, but either way.” Blaze shrugged where he stood just behind Colt.

  Maverick nodded. “I do.”

  Sierra glanced up at him from where she stood across from him, waiting for the two of them to grip hands. “Do you mean you’ll marry me or that you have last words?”

  He lowered his voice, enough so that only she could hear him. “I’m not a man of many words, warrior.”

  “Except in the bedroom,” she whispered.

  “You’re right.” A smirk crossed his lips. “Most of the time, I let my actions speak for me.”

  Before she could respond, he gripped their hands together, sealing the blood bond between them. An electric pulse the likes of which he’d never felt shot up his arm as he pulled her in to him. He’d never felt such a thing with Rose, but at that moment, he couldn’t allow himself to ruminate on what that meant.

  He was too busy tasting her lips, toying with the gentle thrust of her tongue against his, reveling in the way she melted into his arms. He poured every emotion he felt for her into that single kiss, like he was a drowning man and kissing her was the only way he could inhale his next breath. Around them, every thought, every movement and sound disappeared, because the whole of his focus was on her. This woman he loved.

  His wife.

  When he finally broke the kiss between them, he was vaguely aware of the sound of the pack howling, but it was only the whisper that fell from her lips that mattered to him.

  “You promised not to fight dirty,” she breathed. Her lips nuzzled against the scruff of his beard, but she didn’t pull away. Somewhere, in the midst of it all, she’d wrapped her arms around his neck, getting a dash of blood from her still bleeding palm on the whites of his tux.

  His eyes flashed to his wolf. “I’m not fighting, warrior.” He leaned in, his mouth gently brushing against hers before he kissed her again.

  Maverick wasn’t certain what happened in the flurry of moments following. Howling. Rice throwing that when he shifted got unfortunately stuck in his fur. Followed by dinner in which he had to dress in his tux again, much to his displeasure, and an array of events. Everything before him became a blur. For some reason, he seemed to have developed tunnel vision, and the only thing that managed to break him out of that tunnel was her.

  It wasn’t until later that evening when he stood on the balcony of the old abandoned barn they’d converted into a large event hall, a glass of whiskey in his hand, that he finally understood. She wasn’t just his wife. She was his mate. And tonight he was going to have her.

  And he’d be damned if he was going to wait a moment longer.

  His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for her, but not finding.

  “She isn’t here yet.” Colt’s voice came from beside him. “Maeve said she needed an outfit change.”

  “What godforsaken garment does she have up her sleeve now?” Maverick growled.

  Wes laughed. “On edge, Packmaster?”

  They were prepared for tonight. For any outcome that may come. Bloody though it might be…

  “No.” In fact, when it came to the plans for outing who among them was out for his life, he was almost calm. The eye of the storm.

  What he was nervous about was his wife.

  “He’s eager.” The voice came from the edge of the staircase, which led up into the loft from the bottom of the refurbished barn.

  The voice was unfamiliar. Had he been in his true form, his hackles would have raised in alert at the intrusion. Maverick turned to find the unfamiliar man standing at the top of the old wood banister that led to the platform where he and the other warriors had gathered. He held a drink in his hand. From Maverick’s guess, whiskey, and from the way the amber glow of the glass matched the man’s piercing eyes along with the scent of him, he was wolf shifter.

  “Who are you?” Maverick’s voice was a low grumble laced with threat.

  The other wolf didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled aside the material of his suit with his free hand, exposing one of his pectoral muscles. With the tilt of his chin, he gestured to the white wolf-print tattoo against his dark skin. Yellowknife Pack, their Canadian allies.

  But the man remained nameless…

  “What do you want?” Dean looked the other wolf up and down, the assassin likely assessing how he could dispatch this intruder if necessary. It wouldn’t be the easiest task, considering the size of him. Ally pack or not, they didn’t know this wolf.

  The Arctic wolf raised his glass. “To offer my heartfelt congratulations, of course.” He dared take a step closer. A lesser wolf would have been intimidated by Maverick’s presence alone, but all of them? Whoever this wolf was, he was either lethal in his own right or he had a death wish. “I also came to request an audience.”

  “With me?” Maverick asked.

  “No,” he answered. “With your wife. I’m an old friend.”

  Old friend? The air escaped from Maverick’s lungs as he sized the other wolf up. Was this who Sierra had planned to take to her bed after tonight? When she’d first made the proposal to him, he’d been sure that after he was through with her, she’d never want another man. By now, he was certain that much was true. She melted for him. He’d agreed only because he refused to prioritize his pride over her happiness. If that was what she chose, though he doubted it, he wouldn’t stand in her way. Nevertheless, part of him had taken comfort in knowing that following their blood oath, his scent would be permanently on her, and no shifter who valued their life would ever dare touch his wife with his scent on her skin.

  Not this man or anyone else.

  “Like hell.” Maverick snarled. “Whoever you are, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll still stay the hell away from my wife.”

  At that, the Arctic wolf let out a dark chuckle. “I tried to be respectful, Packmaster. But I think I’ll see what your wife has to say about that.”

  With that, the Arctic wolf moved to leave.

  Maverick stepped after him, but Colt grabbed onto his shoulder as he stepped forward. “Leave it, brother. Sierra is loyal to you alone, and she can handle herself.” Not to mention, the Arctic wolves of the Canadian Yellowknife Pack were their close allies. It was a beneficial friendship for the Grey Wolves, so whoever the wolf was, he couldn’t risk it. Not without going head-to-head with their packmaster, Alexander Caron.

  Reluctantly, Maverick nodded. The Arctic wolf had disappeared as quickly as he came. “Are the plans in place?” he addressed t
he group.

  His warriors all nodded. All save one who hadn’t made herself present.

  It was Dean’s low, appreciative wolf whistle that drew their attention from the loud thumping speakers of music.

  “Who is that?” Austin drawled.

  “Is that…?” Jasper lifted a brow.

  Colt growled. “Can the wolf whistle, Dean. That’s my sister.”

  Had she been there beside Maverick in her rightful place like the queen she was, she would have told them all she was her own person, that she belonged to no one, and she would have been right. Radiant, stunning, and beautiful as she was now.

  He’d always seen it, but now they all did.

  And as long as they were staking claim…

  “No.” Maverick growled, silencing the rest of them as he set his still-full whiskey on the wooden banister. “That’s my wife.”

  Chapter 23

  Sierra lingered at the edge of the dance floor, uncertain what to do with herself. She’d shouldered her way through dinner, mixing and rubbing elbows with the other shifters of the Seven Range Pact in attendance as was expected of her. But now, despite the overcrowded room around her, she found herself well and truly alone. The music throughout the refurbished barn thumped through the loudspeakers. The dim ambiance coupled with the strings of lights overhead and the writhing of warm dancing bodies of various shifters of all kinds, making the inside of the old building appear more like a western-themed dance club than somewhere the pack had used to store old hay.

  Sierra clutched the glass of champagne in her hand like a vise. Even in the low heels Maeve had chosen for her, she still felt wobbly, unsteady. She’d never been a fan of not having her feet firmly planted on the ground. Especially not tonight.

  There was too much at stake.

  Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Maverick, but her groom, her husband—she cringed slightly at the thought of that word—was nowhere to be found.

  “A bride should never be left alone on her wedding night.” A cool voice sounded from beside her. She turned toward its familiar source. She hadn’t heard that northern cadence in quite some time.

  “Rock.” She’d known him once formally as Amarok, his true name from Inuit heritage, but after years serving alongside him in MAC-V-Alpha, the Americanized nickname seemed to suit the Canadian Arctic wolf better now. She was used to it.

  He nodded. “The one and only.”

  She wasn’t certain whether or not to take a step back. Rock was a friend in the sense that she’d once trusted him with her life, allowed him to wage war alongside her, but they weren’t in the service anymore, and Rock was not the kind of wolf someone wanted to show up unexpected. She’d seen that firsthand in battle.

  “I’m surprised you’re here.”

  He cast her a dark smile. “I don’t look half-bad in a tux.”

  “Apparently.” Sierra nodded. Her gaze raked over him. He did look handsome. Devilishly so. She would play nice, but she hadn’t seen him in years. Could she still trust him as she once had? He wasn’t pack after all. “Why are you here?”

  “To help you.”

  “Help me?”

  He drew closer, towering over her with that lean, lithe frame of his. With his dark hair pulled away from his face, it highlighted the sharp lines of his cheeks. “A little birdie tells me you’re interested in proving yourself as an elite warrior, and I happen to have information that might be useful to protecting your packmaster.”

  After an evening spent rubbing elbows with the pack’s snobbiest of diplomats, all of whom she subtly surveyed in anticipation that one of them was out to kill her husband, she’d perfected her I-couldn’t-be-less-interested-but-will-pretend-to-be-nice voice. Every woman she knew had one, and she was starting to think that, as packmaster’s wife, it would become one of her superpowers. “Is that so?”

  He raised his glass. The loud music continued to thump around them, silencing their conversation to onlookers.

  “If that’s true, why not tell my husband yourself?”

  He grinned. “Because I make it a habit to help my friends, only those I trust. I don’t know your husband.”

  “Which means you don’t yet trust him.” That, Sierra believed. She shook her head, sipping from the champagne glass in her hand. “I know how you operate because you were once under my command. You don’t do anything for free.”

  “You injure me.” Rock pressed a hand to his chest. He stepped around her as if he planned to leave, but before she could stop him, he leaned in close, whispering directly into her ear like the devil himself. “Word on the street is it’s not new enemies you need to fear. Old habits die hard.” The cryptic words shivered down her spine. “Consider it a wedding present.”

  She started to turn around to tell the Arctic wolf that former friend or not, she wasn’t interested in wedding gifts from the likes of him, but when she turned, he was already gone, having disappeared into the ether of dance floor as quickly as he came.

  Sierra shook her head. At a party of this size, she’d likely never find him again. Even if she wanted to. But that wouldn’t stop her from searching for her husband.

  She needed to find Maverick.

  Tentatively, she moved across the dance floor, weaving and navigating around the dancing partygoers. She was stopped several times for awkward congratulations from subpack members and shifters from other clans who she didn’t even know. She supposed she was going to have to get used to that, considering she was the packmaster’s wife now.

  Packmaster’s wife.

  The more she thought of the title, the more she hated it.

  Somehow, she hadn’t expected the reality of it to weigh as heavily on her as it did.

  She made her way through the crowd. At the other side of the dance floor, she spotted Blaze, alone, drink in hand. Despite the outrageously orange Hawaiian-patterned suit he wore, he was staring out at the crowd ahead of him with a rather grim look on his face as he sipped his beer. Latching on to the familiar face, she made her way over to him.

  His brow furrowed as she approached before he gave her a quick, assessing once-over. “Well, look at you.” He grinned. “I liked the puffball you were wearing earlier better.” He gestured at the slinky white gown Maeve had put her in.

  “I’m not surprised to hear that,” Sierra said, nodding to the explosion of color that was his matching suit jacket and pants. Maverick clearly had forced him to wear a normal tux—but only during the ceremony. She cocked her head to the side. “Are those…?”

  “Palm fronds and pineapples?” he asked. “You bet they are.”

  She laughed. “You can take the wolf out of SoCal…”

  “But you can’t take the SoCal from the wolf,” he finished for her.

  Stepping closer, she lowered her voice. “You’ll never believe who just approached me on the dance floor.”

  Blaze sipped his drink but quirked a brow in interest.

  “Rock from our MAC-V-Alpha days.”

  Blaze didn’t so much as blink.

  Sierra tilted her head to the side. She knew that look. When most men went quiet, it was an indication that they had something to hide. With Blaze, it was an indication that you were finally getting the full truth from him. She wasn’t certain what was more intimidating, the fact that he was so lethal or that he was so skilled at hiding it.

  “Rock was here to see you,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  Blaze didn’t confirm or deny it.

  Her curiosity wanted to know what the two former soldiers were up to. If Rock was here to meet with Blaze, there was a high likelihood he was delivering information, but if the dark look in Blaze’s eyes was any indication, she’d best stay out of it.

  Blaze was unfalteringly loyal to their pack. Whatever it was, he’d handle it.

  And when it was through, even Maveric
k might not be any wiser.

  As if reading her mind, Blaze asked, “Where’s your husband?”

  “I’m not sure actually. We arrived separately.”

  Blaze took a swig of his beer. In an instant, the dark, lethal soldier was gone and his usual lighthearted persona had snapped back in place. “Trouble in the marriage already?” he teased.

  Sierra let out a short bark of a laugh. “Trouble is the foundation of our marriage.”

  Blaze shook his head. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Sierra. I know the details.”

  The details?

  She quirked a brow. “How do you—?”

  That lethal soldier was back again, however briefly. “I know everything that goes on on this ranch and a good portion of what goes on outside it, too.” When her confused expression didn’t change, he leaned closer. “Surveillance cameras are very tiny these days.” He made a little pinching motion with his thumb and forefinger to indicate exactly how small. When she didn’t appear impressed, he shrugged. “Plus my office adjoins Maverick’s, so I…hear things.”

  Heat filled her face. “Of course.” She should have expected as much.

  “If you’re looking for Mav, last I saw, he was on the balcony with the other warriors, scoping out the perimeter.” Blaze tipped his beer toward the balcony overhead.

  Of course, she knew logically that was what he was supposed to be doing, but somehow, she’d expected that since it was their wedding night, she’d at least spend the evening with him.

  “You want to spend the evening with him,” Blaze said, instantly reading her face.

  She and Blaze had never been close, but like all the pack members, they’d grown up together, shared experiences, and they’d bonded during their years of service, yet he was reading her as if she were an open book. One of his many talents she supposed.

  Her brow furrowed. “You can’t possibly know that from a surveillance camera.”

  “You’re right. But I know that look.” Another swig of Coors to his lips.

  “What look?”

  “The look of wanting someone who you’re not certain wants you back.” His gaze flicked pointedly across the dance floor to where Sierra spotted Dakota dancing with another packmember.