Copyright © 2020 Alexis Pierce
This edition published 2020
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:
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Cover Design by Kate Hall
Interior Design by Kate Hall
Dedication
Quote
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dedication
To everyone that said I wouldn’t make it without them.
Fuck you.
Quote
“If I didn't define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive.”
Audre Lorde
Chapter One
Eve
It isn’t a dark and stormy night. In fact, the sun shines golden through the wood-slat blinds in my father’s office, and I’m doing my best to win at heist and seek, our favorite game. Dad has always said that I was born to be a thief. At three, I was already a pro at sneaking up on people. Now that I’m twelve, nobody can find and catch me.
“Eve,” Dad calls, his voice taunting. He sniffs the air, his eyes glinting in the light. I cover my breath so that he doesn’t hear me in the closet. The ceiling of the old St. Louis building is made of those awful flimsy tiles, and I just have to get high enough to crawl out. As long as I don’t let out a giggle, I should be alright.
I tuck Dad’s planner in the front band of my high-waisted jeans and leap up, my hands gripping the rim of the metal door frame. My shoes are old and worn, but they’re built for climbing quickly and quietly. Before she died, Mom used to ask if I wasn’t really a leopard shifter. Dad still points out that I’m the only wolf he knows who can climb so well.
I hold my breath and crane my foot up to grab the frame with my toes, then push myself up. Now all I have to do is move the tile and sneak through the ceiling undetected.
Dad opens the doors to the cabinet in his office, paperwork shuffling around as he searches in one of my common hiding places. I haven’t contorted myself in those boxes in weeks, though. He should know me better. I use the sound as a cover to move the tile, then lift myself deftly into the ceiling. I can’t shift all the way yet, but my eyes can turn wolf-like so I can see in the dark.
Aha! An air vent runs throughout the ceiling, so I crouch on a beam and replace the tile. Anderson, one of the pups my age from the pack, asks how I can stand to stay in small spaces without freaking out. I always tease him back for being a scaredy-dog.
My fingers are sore from the sharp corners, but I still have to make it out of the vents before winning the game.
I pull a screwdriver out of the pocket of my leather utility belt, something Dad bought me after a particularly intense Batman binge. The entrance to the vent is exactly where my blueprints said it would be. I close myself into the tight space, working slowly and carefully. A single noise will be caught by my father’s perfect hearing. I used to be impatient, but I’ve learned that going slow is more likely to make me win the game.
The office Dad works in is on the ground floor of an ancient St. Louis office building with ten stories, most of which have been converted into pack housing for the fifty or so wolves that live in our pack. I have to follow my memorized route to the third-floor ventilation shaft, then climb out over bricks and ivy that has taken over the building thanks to Dad’s careful planning and care. Our apartment is on the top floor, a sprawling space with nearly a dozen bedrooms and several hidden corners.
The only problem is, I have to climb out in ducts directly over the top of Dad’s office. I switch the planner to my thigh bag, the only part of my outfit with a pocket big enough. Then, I move to my belly so I can slide through the vents. The pack’s science teacher taught us about the physics of weight distribution this week. That lesson taught me that crawling on my belly is more effective than being on all fours. Anderson and I are in a class with a thirteen and fourteen-year-old, so we get to learn more advanced stuff than our age group usually would.
I haven’t told Anderson, but I have a bit of a crush on Thompson, the fourteen-year-old son of the pack’s beta. He’s got nearly half a head on me and dark eyes that turn red when he shifts into a black wolf. Neither Anderson nor myself has shifted yet, so the fact that Thompson even lets us hang out with him is an incredible privilege. “It’s just because your dad is the Alpha,” Anderson has said. I didn’t tell him at the time that his words made me tear up a bit. “Besides, Thompson and Freya are clearly going to grow up to be mates.” Freya is thirteen, and she doesn’t like hanging out with us younger kids. She’s way more grown-up than me. For one, she has boobs, and for another, she can shift into a stunning gray timber wolf.
I’m so distracted by the memory that the vent below me creaks.
“Pup, are you in my ceiling?” Dad asks, and I glance through the grate ahead of me to see him climbing on his desk. Before he can open up the vent, though, a knock sounds at his door. He glances up at the ceiling, then shrugs and walks away. I should take this opportunity to leave, but Dad has never let me in on his meetings with other members of the pack.
When Dad opens the door, a voice I recognize as Kenneth, the pack’s beta, says, “David. Glad to have caught you.” He strides past Dad, who closes the door. My heart races. This is big. I’ve never been privy to a meeting between the two most influential members of the pack. I stare down from the ceiling, pulling my black ski mask closer around my face. My curly mass of black hair is tight around my head, and I lean forward.
“What can I do for you, Kenneth?” Dad leans against his desk just below my viewport, but he doesn’t glance up at me or give any indication that he knows about my spying. He knows I’m here, though.
Kenneth steps forward, and, in a flash so quick I can’t follow, shoves a clawed hand through my father’s chest.
I slam a hand over my mouth so I don’t scream. The sight in front of me makes no sense. When Kenneth yanks his hand away, something red and sinewy is in his grasp.
It couldn’t be.
It is.
A heart. My father’s heart.
My stomach retches, but I don’t make a sound. Kenneth smiles as his eyes turn red, reminding me of his son who I’ve been crushing on for months.
He doesn’t linger. Instead, he drops the heart on the ground and moves to the door. He glances up at the air vent, and I sit stark still. He can’t possibly see me past the grate and the dark, can he?
A slow grin slides over his face, and he licks my father’s blood off his hand.
“Run,” he says, his voice low and languid. I don’t even hide my presence anymore. I scramble away through the vent, following the memorized route. The darkness envelopes me and the walls close in, suffocating me. Tears blur my vision, and I gasp in breaths. My knees go sore as bruises form, and instead of being subtle, I kick the vent cover away when I reach the third floor exit.
Nobody is
in the alleyway, so I scuttle down the building as quickly as I can. The instant my feet hit the ground, I sprint, gasping out sobs that wrack my whole body and block my eyesight. I yank the ski mask off my head, my curls flying out as they’re released from their bond.
Dad is dead.
Dead.
Visions of him assault my mind. That time he let me drive his car in the parking garage, the grin as he brought me a Mcdonald’s burger with candles in the top in lieu of a birthday cake, the security of his arms as I cried about mom even though she’s been gone for years.
I will never be safe in his arms again.
Because he’s gone.
I weave through the evening streets of downtown St. Louis, eventually reaching an Amtrak station.
I hide in the bathroom, my feet up on the toilet seat as sobs burst out of me.
I can’t go back there.
Kenneth killed my dad. Thompson’s dad is a murderer.
My hands shake as I dig the planner out of my thigh pocket. It takes me three tries to open the basic clasp. Dad doesn’t let anyone see his planner. That’s why I stole it. There must be something in here that can help me.
I flip through it, tears blurring everything out.
“The train to Dallas will be arriving in ten minutes,” a woman says over the intercom. As if an intervention of fate, my eyes focus on an address.
The address is in Dallas.
I dig through the front pocket of the planner, quickly finding exactly what I’m looking for. A stack of hundred dollar bills. Dad always keeps a few hundred dollars on him, so it makes sense there would be cash in his planner.
I exit the stall and approach the mirror. My face is a mess, so I take cool water and splash it on my splotchy skin. A girl a couple years older than me exits the next stall, then reapplies some makeup. She keeps glancing at me, concern clouding her eyes.
“Can I borrow some mascara?” I ask, trying to sound older and confident, although my voice trembles. She beams and digs through her purse.
“Here, keep it,” she says with a sad grin. Why is this stranger so kind to a clearly messed up young girl like me?
“Thanks,” I say, trying to imitate her perkiness. I do my best to apply the makeup, but I’ve never worn it before. The girl notices my struggle and leans over to apply it for me, her hand brushing over my cheeks. “Thank you,” I repeat, then put the gift into my thigh bag.
Then, I go to the front desk, parting ways with the strange makeup girl.
“One ticket for Dallas,” I say. The man at the counter looks me up and down, so I do my best to keep a serious face. Dad has always said that looking like you belong is usually enough to pass. The man shrugs and rings me up, and I exchange a large amount of the money before thanking him and rushing for the train.
I set my jaw and sit in a seat near the back, putting earbuds in and blasting my iPod. My dad’s face keeps flashing in my eyes, either alive and happy or dead and distant.
I make a vow to myself on this train to a strange city.
I will never cry again.
And I will kill Kenneth if it’s the last thing I do.
Chapter Two
Eve
Thirteen Years Later
I wrap my hands so that my knuckles don’t crack and bleed. Adam is in the dusty backyard of the ranch house. He may look a few years older than me, but he’s a four hundred-year-old dragon shifter who I’ve been living with for over a decade now. Theo, his wife, sits on the porch sipping a daiquiri. Their barely-eighteen son, Jeremiah, is out on the sprawling Dallas property somewhere, probably trying to make friends with wild animals or learn to fly by jumping off the barn.
I tie my hair up in a ponytail before meeting my adoptive family outside.
My black lace leggings hug my broad hips, and I put a sheer tank top over my deep green sports bra. As a last-minute precaution, I put a mouth guard in. Last time I went without one, Theo broke a tooth and I had to go to the dentist.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” I call, and Adam laughs.
“Eve, you’re twenty-five. Maybe come back in a hundred years and try your best.” I growl and lunge at him, and he easily deflects me with an arm. “You’re too impulsive,” he says, grabbing me and using my momentum to spin me into the dirt. I leap back up, the desert sun bearing down heavily on me, warming my head and shoulders.
“You’re just scared,” I mumble, gritting my teeth so my jaw doesn’t rattle when he inevitably hits me again. Neither of the dragons I live with have ever taken my threats seriously, probably because I’ve never come close to beating them. Jeremiah, on the other hand, isn’t anywhere near a match for me.
I have to take a defensive position, as Adam decides to start coming after me. Defending myself may be important, but I need to learn to kill someone. I’m not just here to stay alive.
Dad’s planner is locked in my drawer upstairs. I’ve studied it so much that the leather binding is cracking, and I have to condition it to keep from falling apart completely. Even though Kenneth killed my father and stole his place as Alpha, he didn’t get the things my father really cared about. He didn’t get me, and he didn’t get Dad’s secrets.
I spin and kick at Adam’s feet, but the move doesn’t connect as he leaps over, landing a quick punch to the center of my chest and knocking the breath out of me.
“Fuck,” I say, punching wildly. My form is probably awful, but at this point, I’m just getting mad. I draw a knife out of my pocket and fling it to the side. The distraction is enough for Adam to look away. Theo catches the knife two inches from her face without looking away from her romance novel, but Adam’s preoccupation allows me to land a punch to his jaw.
Instead of getting angry and losing control like me, though, he smiles and clotheslines me.
Fuck it, the wolf inside me says. I completely agree, and I let her out. I shift into a pitch black wolf, my clothing shredding. Okay, maybe I should have kept my clothes together. Adam and Theo are sick of buying me new outfits. I dive at Adam, aiming to bite as hard as I can, but he grabs my upper jaw with his bare hand and yanks my head back so I can’t even close my maw.
I growl at him, but it turns into a garbled sound as he holds my head back. I sit up on my haunches and try to scratch him, to do anything to distract him, but he simply tosses me to the side and rolls his shoulders.
God damn it. I let out a pissed-off bark as my blood boils in my system, and I sprint directly at my guardian. He dodges out of the way and shifts into a massive dragon, his brass scales glinting in the heat.
I should really learn to plan ahead. Instead, I dive at his legs, biting and nipping at the air. In an instant, his claw clamps around me and tosses me to the ground. Before I can catch my breath and stand, he places a foot on me and holds me to the ground.
“Adam wins again,” Theo says nonchalantly.
I huff, but he doesn’t release me until I’ve calmed down sufficiently.
He lets out a chortle that grumbles out of his dragon mouth, then shifts back. I change back as well, a frown marring my earlier confidence. Theo tosses robes at both of us, and I make myself decent.
“Tips?” I ask, retrieving my silver butterfly knife and twirling it in my hands, a motion I learned from a lot of YouTube and even more injuries.
Adam frowns and sits in one of the porch chairs, sipping water out of a reusable bottle dripping with condensation. “You’re too impulsive. You need to think before you attack. You have a great brain, you just need to learn to use it.”
I grimace. He always says that. “Impulsiveness makes me unpredictable,” I point out, and he shakes his head with a laugh.
“It does the opposite. You always do the same thing. It may sound odd, but to be unpredictable, you need to plan your attack.”
I sit in another chair, resting my head on my arms. Before our sparring, I spent the morning learning and perfecting new stances. That plus weightlifting has my entire body irritable and sore. “I’ll take that under adviseme
nt.” I steal Adam’s water bottle and take a long drag. Then, I turn around and leave to go shower. So what if he thinks I’m impulsive? I still kick Jeremiah’s ass every time. If I can defeat a dragon, even a juvenile, then I’ll surely be able to defeat the wolf that ruined my life.
After my shower, I go out to the gun range with my favorite pistol, a Hellcat Micro-Compact that Theo got me for my birthday. It’s a tiny and deadly nine millimeter, perfect for my needs. I put earplugs in so that the repeated exposure to gunshots doesn’t ruin my hearing this early in my predicted three-hundred-year lifespan, and I imagine that the silhouette on the target is Kenneth.
I may be shit at taking down Adam, but I don’t miss a single one of my shots. When I check the target, my hands buzzing from the vibration, there are only two holes. Every shot hit the center mark except one. I frown. It’s not good enough.
I continue to practice as the sky goes from gold to pink. I should probably get in the house for dinner.
I clear the chamber and turn on the safety, tucking my little gun in the leather holster against my ribcage. It weighs basically nothing, and I just bought a new holster that I have yet to try out. Maybe I should wear that tomorrow.
I take down my hair and run my fingers through it, then put it right back up. I’ve considered cropping it short, but everyone compliments me on my hair.
When I walk in the house, my Doc Martens clomping on the hardwood floor, the spicy scent of enchiladas assaults my senses. I kick my boots off and wash my hands in the laundry room’s sink before going into the rest of the house. I know far better than to wear shoes in anyone’s house. I may not be walking the nasty city streets of my childhood, but there’s still plenty of gross stuff to track into a home.
“Set the table,” Theo calls, slapping Jeremiah’s hand away as he tries to steal a taste off the counter. I grab a handful of silverware and slam the drawer shut, setting a place for everyone.
“We’re having the Dixons over, so set five extra spots,” Adam says, pulling two pans of enchiladas out of the oven to cool on the stove.
Rogue Wolf (Lycans of Eve Book 1) Page 1
