by J. L. Wilder
They thought I was a random wolf who came running into the bar, he thought, remembering their words before they’d left. They thought I came in from outside. No one ever suspects the truth. No one thinks a man can turn into a wolf.
Brock and the rest of his pack had guarded the secret so jealously. Pack members had been forbidden to shift in public, whether they were transitioning from wolf to human or human to wolf. If anyone might see you, you had to stay in the form you were in. The rule made it impossible to help out in a fight. No matter how strong a man was, he was stronger as a wolf. In human form, Wyatt could never have hoped to take on both of those men at once and save the one who now lay gasping on the ground.
And in the end, there was no need for all the secrecy. Humans didn’t believe in shifters, even if you shifted right in front of them. They would always come up with some explanation for what they had seen. Wyatt wondered what this man would come up with to explain the sudden presence of a wolf in the bar. He sat back on his haunches.
The man struggled to sit upright. He spat out a mouthful of blood. His eye was blackened and he was cradling his torso gingerly with one arm. Probably a broken rib, Wyatt thought. If the fight had gone on much longer, he would have ended up in the hospital, or worse.
He looked at Wyatt. “You saved my life,” he said.
Talking to a wolf. Okay, so the man was crazy. Or maybe he had a concussion. Wyatt didn’t move.
“You can shift back,” the man said, struggling to his feet. “I know what you are. I saw you shift. It’s all right.”
Wyatt felt bowled over. How does he know? He didn’t even seem surprised to find a man who could turn into a wolf in the middle of a bar. His confusion swept through him, igniting his ability to think and reason, his basic human essence, and before he knew it, he was crouched defensively in human form.
“It’s okay,” the man said. “I’m Robert Moore. Who are you?”
“Wyatt,” Wyatt said. “Wyatt Howell.” He couldn’t quite say what compelled him to answer the question. He had spent the past three months giving away as little information as possible about himself, and now in a matter of minutes this stranger had not only his name but the fact that he was a shifter. “How do you know about—?”
“I’m a shifter too,” Robert said.
Chapter Two
WYATT
“Hey, wait!” Wyatt protested as Robert got to his feet, leaning on a barstool for support. “Stay down a minute, will you? They savaged you. You definitely have some broken ribs, or—”
“I’m all right.” Robert spat again. This time there was no blood. “We heal pretty quick. You must know that.”
“I...” Wyatt hesitated. He’d never been injured, really, so he’d never had cause to test his own healing. Maybe that was evidence enough in itself, come to think of it. He’d definitely bashed his toe pretty hard on that uneven place in the driveway back at his old pack’s house once or twice, but after hopping around cursing for a minute, it had always been fine. And then there was the fact that he never seemed to have a hangover, no matter how much he drank. “You’re really a shifter?” he asked Robert.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t understand why you let them do that to you. Why didn’t you just shift and rip their throats out?”
Robert shook his head. “I wasn’t going to kill anyone if I could avoid it. I noticed you made the same choice, by the way.” He turned to the bar. “Miranda, it’s safe to come out now. And we’ll take a couple of shots for the road.”
“They were on the run.” Wyatt felt the need to explain himself. It was strange. He wasn’t used to answering for his actions. His reluctance to do that had been one of the things that had caused his old pack to drive him away. And yet here he was, explaining himself to a stranger. “I wasn’t going to go after them and kill them while they were running away.”
“If they’d stayed to fight, then you would have?”
“I don’t know. Depends on which way the fight was going.” Wyatt frowned. “You could have shifted and fought back. Not killed them, but run them off, the way I did. Why didn’t you do that, if you’re really a shifter?”
By now the bartender had returned and placed two shots of whiskey on the bar. Robert took his down in a smooth gulp. “To be honest, I wanted to see what you would do.”
“What?”
“My pack has known you were in the area for a while now. Our best trackers picked up your scent about five days ago. Then we realized you kept coming to this bar. This place is Death Rider territory, as you heard. I meant to come in here and give you a warning, let you know that you shouldn’t come here if you wanted to avoid a fight. Those Death Riders will take any reason to ring someone’s bell.”
“But they aren’t shifters,” Wyatt said. “Are they?”
“No, they’re not. But if they brought five or six and you were alone, it wouldn’t matter. Hell, they almost had me out for the count today and it was just the two of them.”
“What if I hadn’t intervened?” Wyatt asked. “They were killing you. They weren’t going to stop.”
The conversation was interrupted by the wail of sirens and a sea of flashing lights pulling into the parking lot. Wyatt turned to Robert, who nodded. “Miranda called the cops,” he confirmed. “If you hadn’t stepped in, they would have.”
“You might have been dead by then,” Wyatt protested.
“They came at me more aggressively than I anticipated,” Robert admitted. “I’m glad you broke it up. Thank you for that.”
“So, you came in here, you went through all that, just to give me a warning?” Wyatt asked. “It seems like a lot of trouble to go through just to warn me that I might be at risk. What am I to you?”
“That’s a longer conversation,” Robert said. “Why don’t we take it elsewhere? Give me a moment to speak to the police, all right?” And he crossed the room to the door, where a team of officers were just making their way inside, looking around at the overturned barstool and blood on the floor.
Wyatt took a seat at a booth in the corner and watched Robert. He conversed easily with the officers, as if he’d done it before, and Wyatt couldn’t help wondering if this was a man who often had to deal with police. By his gestures, Wyatt could tell that he was describing the fight. Would Robert tell the police about Wyatt’s part in things? If so, Wyatt knew, he would be called upon to give an account of what had happened. He would have to come up with something to say. It wasn’t as if he could tell the truth.
But the police seemed happy with Robert’s story. They nodded, closed up their notepads, and walked back out to the parking lot. Robert rubbed a hand over his face and came over to Wyatt’s table, sitting down across from him.
“What did you tell them?” Wyatt asked.
“That I was attacked by two strangers,” Robert said. “I downplayed the whole thing, of course, because I’m clearly not badly hurt. I just said they got a few punches in and left. That checked out with what Miranda told them on the phone, so it’s not a big deal. We’re free to go.”
“Okay,” Wyatt said. “But go where, exactly? You said we’d go somewhere else to talk about things. Another bar?”
“No,” Robert said. “Actually, I wonder if you’d come back to my place with me.”
Wyatt hesitated. “I don’t know you very well.”
“You know me fairly well,” Robert said. “You know we’re both shifters, and there’s a bond in that. I just want to talk to you. And my wife Lena makes the best roast duck in the world. You’ll be welcome to join us for dinner.”
If he went, Wyatt knew, he’d be walking into a pack of shifters. This could all be a trick. Maybe they wanted to hurt him, and if so, he’d never be able to take on a whole pack at once.
But on the other hand, what did he really have to lose? Riding his bike around by himself day after day? Sleeping in cheap motels or in wolf form underneath trees? Drowning his memories in whiskey every day?
“Roast duck sounds great,” he said.
“Good,” Robert said, smiling as he got to his feet. “It’s a bit of a ride, so let’s get going.”
SEVERAL TIMES DURING the forty-minute ride from the bar to the pack house, Wyatt seriously considered breaking off his pursuit of the bike ahead of him and going his own way. But the thing that kept him following Robert each time was the simple fact that he had nowhere else to go. This might be risky, but at least it was something. At least, today wouldn’t be exactly like yesterday and the day before. It seemed unlikely that things could get worse than they had been.
Eventually Robert pulled off the two-lane blacktop and onto a dirt road that curved between tall pine trees. Back and back they went, slowing as the light from the road faded into the distance behind them. Wyatt could only see a few feet in any direction. It was like being swallowed up by the night. Perhaps it should have frightened him, but there was something intensely satisfying about it. He felt more relaxed than he had in a long time, as if he was leaving something very painful behind him.
Robert parked his bike and waved a hand, indicating that Wyatt should park beside him. Wyatt did so and dismounted, looking up at the house. It was built to resemble a log cabin, but massive, three stories high. He could only guess at how many rooms must be inside. Lost for words, he looked over at Robert.
“My grandparents’ generation built the place,” Robert said, looking up at it with pride. “My pack has lived here since then. Over fifty years. I grew up in this house.”
“It’s really something,” Wyatt said.
A girl in her mid-twenties came out the door at a jog. She wore a black vest, and as she spoke to Robert, Wyatt was able to see the back of it. Hell’s Wolves, it said across the top in red letters, and at the bottom, Bloomington. In the middle was an image that had to be their pack’s symbol, three red slashes that looked as if they’d been made by claws.
So, they were a motorcycle club. Just like the Death Riders. Well, Wyatt amended, maybe not just like. The Death Riders picked a fight in a bar, and these people invited me home for roast duck. I should really withhold judgment.
“Lena’s mad,” the girl said, a playful note of warning in her voice. “She said you might not get any dinner if you were late.”
“She’d better not forget who her alpha is,” Robert said. There was a teasing tone in his voice too. “Heather, this is Wyatt. He’s the one Gunner was tracking.”
Heather turned. Rather than greet Wyatt, she looked him up and down as if he were a horse she was considering buying. “Is he going to stay?” she asked.
“That’s up to him,” Robert said. “But let’s let him have his dinner before we start asking a bunch of questions, okay? Run in and tell Lena he’s here, and set an extra place at the table. By me, please.”
Heather walked backward toward the house, her steps slow. “Why by you?” she asked. “What has he done to earn that spot?”
“We’ll talk about it at dinner,” Robert said firmly.
Heather made a face and turned away.
“She was obeying you,” Wyatt realized. “She was compelled to obey.”
“I’m the alpha of the pack,” Robert said. “I don’t know if you’ve been part of a pack before.”
“I... I guess I haven’t,” Wyatt said. “I’ve lived with a pack, but I’ve never been subject to an alpha. That’s actually why they kicked me out.”
Robert frowned. “They kicked you out of your pack because you weren’t subject to the alpha’s will?”
“Yeah. Among other things.”
“Well, that’s the alpha’s fault, not yours,” Robert said. “A powerful alpha can compel his packmates to submit. If your alpha couldn’t do that, he shouldn’t have punished you for it. It sounds like he was insecure.”
“No, Brock wasn’t...he couldn’t have been.”
“Well, I didn’t know him,” Robert said with a shrug. “But every alpha I’ve ever known who has had a pack member break his control has been weak, and they’re always overthrown by a stronger member of the pack in the end.”
Wyatt digested that quietly for a moment. He had always taken pride in the fact that Brock couldn’t control him, but if he was honest with himself, he’d always felt strange about it, too. It felt like something was wrong with him, like he was damaged in some way. But maybe Brock was the one who was damaged. Maybe he just wasn’t a very good alpha. And maybe Wyatt had been kicked out of the pack, not for his own failings, but for Brock’s.
It would mean he wasn’t worthless after all. And Robert had given him that answer so quickly, so easily. As if it weighed nothing. As if it were the obvious explanation.
“Let’s go inside,” Robert said now. “Before Lena comes out here and starts busting our chops.”
Wyatt trailed in after him. The door opened into a large kitchen, the centerpiece of which was a table made of untreated wood. Some members of the pack had already taken seats around the table, but a few were still bustling around the kitchen, ferrying dishes from the stove or pouring drinks.
Robert took Wyatt by the elbow and steered him to a seat. “You sit right here,” he said. “By me.”
Wyatt knew enough of pack dynamics to understand the honor he was being given. The place beside the alpha was reserved for the second in command, the beta of the pack. “I shouldn’t,” he protested.
“Nonsense. You saved my life tonight.”
“Your life wouldn’t have been at risk if it weren’t for me.”
“Just sit down.”
Giving in, Wyatt took the seat. Heather happened to be seated opposite him and he smiled relieved to see a familiar face. She smiled back and handed him a basket of rolls.
Wyatt selected one and put it on his plate, glancing around to try and pick up the etiquette of the situation. Most of the others had already begun eating, but the alpha wasn’t seated yet, and neither was the woman who was clearly his wife. Lena and Robert were locked in an embrace by the stove. It looked like he wasn’t too far in the doghouse after all.
Wyatt turned to pass the basket to the man sitting next to him. “Roll?” he started to say, but his voice died in his throat.
The man was short and stocky, with a close-cropped head of dark hair. He had come shirtless to the table, and Wyatt could see scars across his torso that indicated he had been in many fights. On his cheekbone, he had tattooed the three slash marks Wyatt had seen on the back of Heather’s vest, the symbol of the Hell’s Wolves. It made for a dramatic first impression. But none of that was what made the man so intimidating.
The threat was in the way he was glaring at Wyatt, as if he’d like to pick up the knife by his plate and give him a slash to match the three on his own face.
Wyatt was stunned. What did I do to this man? he wondered. The guy clearly didn’t want him here—but why? Was Wyatt’s presence harming him in some way?
Wordlessly, he held out the rolls. The angry man hesitated for a long moment, then snatched them away. He plucked a roll from the basket and practically slammed it onto his plate before thrusting the basket into the chest of the man on his other side.
Fortunately, Robert and Lena came to the table just then, distracting Wyatt from his worries about the man who clearly wanted to be his new enemy. “Everyone,” Robert said as he took his seat, “This is Wyatt Howell.”
Wyatt was impressed that Robert had remembered his last name. He lifted a hand in greeting. Around the table, a few people waved back.
“Wyatt saved my life tonight,” Robert said with no preamble. “There was a bar fight, and I was attacked by two of the Death Riders. Fortunately, Wyatt happened to be in the bar, and he was able to run them off. In doing so, he shifted, revealing himself to me as the shifter we’ve been tracking for the past few days.”
“You must have known it was him before he shifted,” Heather protested.
“But we don’t confront our fellow shifters and demand that they identify themselves, do we?” Robert asked. “We let
them choose whether or not to share their nature with us. Wyatt chose to share his nature with me. It was a demonstration of trust.”
Wyatt hadn’t thought about it like that. But hearing Robert’s speech, he realized that he did feel much better about these people than he would have if they’d come up to him and demanded to know whether he was a shifter. The choice had been in his hands. He found he appreciated that fact.
“To thank Wyatt for his help,” Robert went on, “I’ve invited him to enjoy dinner with us. I recommend taking the evening to get to know him on a personal level. He’s without a pack, alone in the world, and we all know that wolves belong in packs. At the end of the evening, I plan to invite him to join us permanently.”
Permanently. The word shivered its way down Wyatt’s spine. Live here with them permanently. Be a part of their pack. But would he truly be a part of it, or would it be like it had been with Brock, with him always on the outside? Wyatt had always thought it was a good thing that no alpha could control him. Now, though, sitting beside Robert with the smell of roast duck in the air, looking up and down the table at the happy family around him, he realized that all he wanted was to be a part of this. I hope he can control me, he thought, and it took him by surprise. I hope he’s powerful enough to make me submit. When he asks me to stay, I’ll say yes. I want to belong to something.
The rest of the night was a whirlwind. He met dozens of people. Lena thanked him profusely for saving her husband at the bar. A young man of about Heather’s age named Van took him out to the garage to see the pack’s motorcycles. Wyatt was stunned by the variety and longed to try some of them out, but knew better than to ask for a privilege just like that before anybody knew him.
The only downside of the night was the angry man he’d been seated next to at dinner. Throughout the evening, Wyatt kept catching the man staring at him with an intense dislike. A part of him wanted to ask someone what it was all about, but he didn’t quite dare. There was always a chance no one else had noticed, and he didn’t want to call attention to a conflict between him and an established pack member.