Raging Wolf: A MC Werewolf Romance

by Felicity Jordan

  RAGING WOLF

  (A MC Werewolf Romance)

  Felicity Jordan

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  RAGING WOLF

  Copyright ©2019 by Felicity Jordan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design copyright ©2019 by Felicity Jordan

  Synopsis

  The explosion ripped through the night sky.

  Michael knew it was the harbinger of trouble.

  Growling and shifting to his wolf form he ran through the chill, primeval forest to investigate. He was the grizzled veteran of dozens of motorcycle club turf wars and he’d seen it all.

  But what he found shocked even him.

  A young raven-haired beauty in the middle of a sea of destruction.

  A witch.

  The daughter of his hated rival and archenemy of all shifters.

  He should just leave her.

  His life was complicated enough.

  But the sight of her awakened a deep, primal desire inside of him.

  He would save her.

  And she would be his.

  Chapter One

  Michael

  “Almost done,” Ray announced, turning his torque wrench clockwise to tighten a bolt on the rear wheel. His words had just confirmed the obvious. Against all odds, the electric-blue Harley Davidson that he and Michael had found in Samuel’s junkyard had been brought back to life. The two of them often visited the old man, searching for something that could be salvaged. Most of the time, that quest didn’t bear fruit. The things they found in that junkyard in Shandaken were either too rusty or too damaged. This time though, they had struck gold. That motorcycle was sold for parts just six weeks earlier. Samuel had already sold its thunder headers, but that wasn’t a problem. Purchasing a couple of new ones cost a lot less than buying the entire motorcycle.

  Of course, the process of putting it back together wasn’t easy. It took them ten days of blood, sweat and frustration to make that Harley look like it once used to. Still, it was one of the few things that could pull them from reality, a reality riddled with turmoil, uncertainty, and sometimes, even death. Spending hours and hours in a workshop was a welcome distraction. More than anything, it satisfied a passion they shared since childhood: Motorcycles.

  “It’s a beautiful machine.” Ray commented, straightening himself up.

  “It’s a lot more than just a machine.” Michael disagreed, reaching out to the handlebar. “You know that.”

  “Of all the goddamn days.” Ray groaned, looking out his window. Raindrops were streaming down the glass, drenching the wooden frame. Lightning sizzled and flashed, illuminating Dawson Valley for a moment. In a split second, the deafening boom of thunder rattled the windows, causing the floor to vibrate underneath their feet.

  “I wouldn’t take her out for a ride tonight anyway.” Michael claimed, strolling towards the door. Easing it open, he felt the cold wind and moisture hitting him in the face. “It’s twenty-six degrees, man. And don’t forget she hasn’t worked in months. What if it broke down?”

  “Are you doubting our skills, Gibson?” Ray asked, a touch of annoyance in his tone.

  “No.” Michael shook his head once, turning to face him. “I’m doubting the thirty-six-year-old motor in her. Hell, we weren’t even born when she ran her first mile.”

  “You’re right, but…” Ray drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t have the money to replace it. Don’t worry, she’s…”

  He didn’t have time to finish his sentence. At that moment, a huge explosion rocked the valley and the mountainside alike, forcing Michael to whip his head around. A massive fireball shot up the night sky, painting the trees around it a soft shade of silver. Tension tightened the back of his neck. He rushed out of the workshop and onto the rocky ridge, wondering what could have caused this.

  “Weird…” He croaked, drops of water streaming down his forehead. “It’s nowhere near Payton.” He remarked, noticing the nearest cabin to the forest. It was at least half a mile west of the incident. “What the hell just blew up like that?”

  “Beats me.” Ray shrugged. “The only building down there is that old windmill.”

  “Take the van and meet me on the road.” Michael urged, putting some force in his voice, thin vapors shooting from his mouth. “I’ve got to check this out.”

  “What?” Ray squinted, focusing his attention on him.

  “Do it.” Michael insisted, unwilling to explain further. The beast within purred at the idea of being unleashed. With his friend returning to the workshop, he closed his eyes. In the blink of an eye, he felt his ribs jerk then crack like twigs. Dark-brown fur sprung from the top of his ears. His legs shortened and thinned, claws springing from the knuckles of his fingers and toes. His nose was replaced by a muzzle as his eyes assumed a sparkling shade of yellow.

  The wolf tossed his head back, a moment before his tremendous howl echoed across the valley. He ran off, jumping over the edge of the ridge, adrenaline rushing through his veins. Humans were infamous for being loud; they were often heard shouting or playing music. Yet, he had never seen anything like this. Whatever it was, he had to get down there and find out.

  He ran across the rocks, the rain lashing him, soaking his fur. Brilliant forks of lightning shot across the sky, more flashes lighting his path. The mixed scent of wet soil, balsam fir and cedar rushed through his nostrils while the edge of the woods drew near. Hackles raised, his tail straight out behind him, he jumped over a pile of brush. As he crossed the forest border, a dreadful feeling stormed into his heart. The question it raised grew his concern, heightening his alertness.

  “What if this is a trap?”

  He wouldn’t put this past his enemies. Dunston’s warlocks hated the notion of a fair fight. Without witchcraft, they were nothing more than weak humans. With it however, they were very powerful, capable of ending anyone, no matter their strength. They had tricked his pack before. They wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. Nevertheless, he had to admit that warlocks liked to do things in a more subtle way. They kept their powers hidden from humans, because they were afraid of the consequences. Humans’ deep-seated fear of the unknown can lead them to repeat the atrocities of the past. An explosion in the middle of the night would draw too much unwanted attention.

  Galloping parallel to the trees, he tried to block out that thought. It sounded too far-fetched, and he had to concentrate on the immediate. Within seconds, he hurtled past chunks of charred rock. The smell of burned wood and metal lingered in the air. Michael bypassed two smoldering planks, on top of one another, settling his gaze on the scene of devastation.

  The once towering windmill had been reduced to a pile of rubble. A short part of its outer wall was still standing, and the fire had charred its white pai
nt. Splinters of wood had spread across the forest floor. Some of them were still burning, revealing nearby shards of glass. Michael stepped onto the pile, his large paws knocking over a shattered concrete block. To his surprise, he caught another scent. Had he not been overwhelmed with all the other scents he would have smelled it from over a mile away. It was a human. She smelled like a rose garden. Intrigued, he padded up, until he found himself on top of the rubble. A mere glance down confirmed his suspicions. A young redhead was lying in the mud, her eyes shut, her arms bent and over her head. The sleeves of her sweater had been almost completely ripped off. It was singed all the way down to her stomach, whereas the holes in her jeans were big enough to fit his paw. Her weak heartbeat filled his ears as he let out a frantic yip. She was no stranger to him. He had seen her a few times in the neighboring town of Shandaken. This was Helena Dunston, the daughter of Frank Dunston, his pack’s arch enemy.

  The wolf raised his upper lip, his loud snarl rising above the sound of the rain. Nothing would please him more than to tear her to pieces, right there and then. But this would have consequences on him and his kind. There had been bad blood between them for years. Killing Frank’s flesh and blood would spell disaster and risk a war they had been trying to avoid.

  His next thought was abandoning her. He didn’t owe her anything. Neither was her bad fortune his problem. All the same, he realized that this was out of the question. In his eagerness to investigate, he had made a mistake. His howl had notified the warlocks of his presence. Sooner or later, they would arrive at the scene. Perhaps they were already watching him; he didn’t know. Therefore, Michael made the safest choice. He decided to take her to hospital. After all, Ray had been waiting for him on the road, just two hundred yards to the left.

  Shifting back to his human form, he bent down, his gaze fixed on her face. He put his hands under her armpits, throwing a few, furtive glances around him. Thick trunks entered his view, setting his fears at ease. No one knew he was there just yet. A simple pull lifted her off the ground. Stepping over some smashed concrete blocks, he draped her over his shoulder.

  With his frozen breath chugging in front of his face, he left the ruins of the windmill behind him. His feet sank into the mud as he headed towards the road. The cold rain was pouring down, tempting him to shed his human skin. The wolf’s fur was ideal in such conditions. However, he had to keep his beast hidden. As strong as it was, it was impossible to carry the limp body of a woman. The wolf would have to drag her across the forest floor, and that would jeopardize her health. Michael wanted to rescue her, not ensure her demise.

  A short jog later, he spotted the taillights of Ray’s white van peeking through the trees. Understanding that he had no time to waste, he jogged up the roadside slope as his friend moved around the vehicle.

  “Stupid humans…” Ray groaned. “Whoa!” He exclaimed, stopping right behind the van. “She…”

  “Yeah.” Michael interrupted, joining him on the road. “She must have caused that accident somehow. Open the door.”

  “Hold on just a minute.” Ray requested, raising his hand at chest height. “What do you want to do with her?”

  “Stick her in a stew.” Michael grumbled, feeling the strain in his muscles. “Take her to hospital, you idiot! What else would I want to do with her? Now, get that door.”

  “Fine.” Ray said on an exhale, indulging him. Michael took three more steps towards the vehicle, looking over his shoulder. Once again, he discovered that they were alone. The road behind them was pitch-black.

  Despite his decision, he still had his doubts about interfering. He had no idea what she had done wrong, but it wasn’t his business. Those warlocks could do whatever they wished, as long as they didn’t mess with his pack and Mercer, his town. Still, there was a chance that leaving her there to die would not go unnoticed. He wasn’t afraid of her father. He was very powerful; there was no denying that. Losing her would drive him crazy, and he would take his wrath out on the people who didn’t lend a helping hand to his little girl…

  Chapter Two

  Helena

  The beeping of the heart rate monitor stirred Helena from sleep. She pried her eyes open and looked up. There were no wood logs on the ceiling. Instead of their brownish color, she saw a white, flaky paint, along with a fluorescent light. Her heart sank as she lowered her gaze. She had several stitches along her left forearm, dozens of scratches on her legs and a large bandage around her waist. An itching sensation on the side of her neck compelled her to reach up. Helena felt the threads of more stitches on her fingertips, before scanning the room. In an instant, she recognized a familiar face. Her mother, Martha, was by her side.

  “Welcome back, sweetheart.” She uttered, making her voice sound sweeter, a broad smile spreading across her face.

  “Mom?” Helena whispered, swallowing hard. “What am I doing here?”

  “Your recklessness brought you here.” Martha declared, glaring down at her. “I don’t know what you were doing in that windmill, but it’s clear to me that you did this to yourself. What was it, Helena? What were you trying to do?”

  “Mom, please.” She begged, tearing her gaze away from her. “I don’t want to have the same old conversation, okay?”

  “You almost got yourself killed; I think it’s only fair you told me.” Martha assumed an emphatic tone, leaning over towards her. Helena could understand her mother’s frustration, but, sadly for her, there was nothing she could do about it. She had every right to practice witchcraft, just like everyone else in the family. There was a problem, though. Helena was twenty-one-and-half years old, six months away from becoming a full witch. Her powers had not peaked yet, and she had to be very careful when using spells that required absolute concentration.

  “Later.” She muttered under her breath. “How did I get here?”

  “We don’t know.” Martha’s response was sharp. “You went out in the woods three hours ago. I knew something bad had happened to you when I saw that fireball.”

  “So did I.” Her father interjected, strolling into the room. “You outdid yourself this time, little girl. How many times do I have to tell you? You’re not strong enough to chant those incantations. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Here we go again…” Helena thought to herself, too drowsy to explain herself once more.

  “Dad, I can’t do this right now.” She told him, her voice picking up volume. “Who brought me here? Was it you?”

  “This is where it gets interesting,” her father said, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, his slow footsteps closing the distance between them. He drew out his orb and lowered it to her level. “Or perhaps I should say ‘annoying.’” He went on, tapping his index finger on the sphere.

  Intrigued, Helena watched it spin, wondering what had upset her father. The surface of the orb darkened, depicting a view of the hospital’s parking lot. In a matter of seconds, a white van sped through the entrance on the left. Its tires screeched as its driver brought it to an abrupt halt outside the hospital entrance. He honked three times first, and then jumped out of the vehicle. The moment he turned to look into the hospital lobby, Helena comprehended the reason behind her father’s annoyance. She was looking at Ray Walker, one of her people’s sworn enemies. He gestured to someone in the lobby and rushed off to open the rear door of his van.

  To make matters worse, he wasn’t alone. There was someone else in the passenger seat. His black hair and his chiseled face didn’t leave much room for doubt. His name was Michael Gibson, but his identity wasn’t the biggest surprise for her. The flamboyant biker stayed inside while two orderlies put her body on a gurney. Why? Because he would be much too embarrassed and too cold to get out of that van. She could see his bare shoulders and part of his chest. Helena had heard more than enough stories of shape shifters to know that they are naked once they have assumed their human form. Her blood froze in her veins. Hitting her forehead with the palm of her hand, she dropped her gaze down to her sto
mach.

  “Put it away, please.” She requested, her tone weakening. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

  “I have to go and thank them,” her father groaned, shoving the orb back into his pocket. “Can you imagine how embarrassing it’s going to be for me?”

  “How was I supposed to know?” Helena rolled her shoulders, her gaze shooting up to meet his.

  “Which part?!” He shouted, his face twisting into an expression of anger. “That you’d screw up the spell or that those misfits would take you to hospital?”

  “Frank, keep your voice down,” her mother advised in a mellow tone. “We’re in a hospital, remember?”

  “You and I have a lot to talk about when this is over, young lady,” her father remarked, tightening his jaw. “I’ll be outside.”

  At that, he flipped around and stormed out of the room, without looking back.

  “My father’s mad at me.” Helena concluded, nodding at the same time. “What a surprise.”

  “Helena…”

  “Mom, don’t!” She interrupted, raising her tone. “I’ve heard the same old words, over and over again. ‘Don’t do this, don’t do that, you’re too young, blah, blah, blah, yada, yada.’ I was born from a witch bloodline. What do you expect me to do? Pretend I’m just another human? And don’t tell me you guys didn’t practice magic until you were thirty.”

  Helena might have been waiting for her mother’s answer with bated breath, but, to her disappointment, silence served as Martha’s response. She looked away from her daughter and strutted towards the door, just when two, female voices echoed down the hallway. Kate and Julia, her two, closest friends were approaching, saving Martha from the trouble of answering her question.

  “Girl, what happened to you?” Kate asked, tension written all over her face. “Are you okay?”