Enslaved by the Alpha: Part One (Shifters of Nunavut Book 1)

by Rivard, Viola

  Enslaved by the Alpha

  Viola Rivard

  Copyright © 2014 by Viola Rivard

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  “During my three months among the pack, I only saw one other alpha.”

  The camera pans to a silhouetted figure on a white hill.

  “His eyes reminded me of a glacier—cold, hard, and unyielding. I got the impression that I could film him for a decade and never see more than what was on the surface of that frigid gaze.”

  The camera zooms in. Snow flurries go out of focus as the image of the alpha sharpens. Long, black hair whips around his face, allowing only fragmented glimpses of a haunting façade. The camera zooms in further, capturing a pair of wild blue eyes set below a dark brow.

  “Later, I asked Tallow about him. She said his name is Erik. He’s the alpha of the Amarok pack, and also Zane’s greatest rival. I told her what I thought of Erik, and she laughed at me. She said not to let his implacable mask fool me. There was no mystery to Erik. Behind those glacial eyes was nothing but a cruel, pitiless psychopath.”

  Ginnifer Castillo

  The Wolves of Nunavut

  CHAPTER ONE

  Astrid clutched her coffee with one hand, while absently rubbing Noona’s neck with the other. As a native southerner, Astrid was a great lover of sweet iced tea, but she’d never been much of a coffee drinker. Hot coffee in particular, she’d always viewed as an addiction, right up there with cigarettes and internet poker, and if there was one positive quality Astrid could boast—and there was literally just one—it was that she did not become addicted to anything.

  But after ten long days and nine even longer nights in Nunavut, which was larger than Texas with about three percent of the population of Rhode Island, Astrid was willing to admit to herself that at least for the time being, she was a coffee drinker. The rich, fragrant drink not only kept her warm during the trek across the tundra, but also kept her sane and functional, as each day exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her.

  Even now, as she was preparing to retire for another night—a night that never seemed to end in the arctic climate—she was guzzling her ninth cup of coffee.

  “It’s not the teeth you want, it’s the skins,” Gerald said, puffing on his hand rolled cigar. “Those will fetch you a pretty penny, if you know where to find the buyers.”

  Astrid glanced up from her cup, eyeing her traveling companions with suspicion. Six men with graying beards and weathered, leathery skin crouched around the fire pit. Hammond was heating a pot of baked beans, while the others were all looking at Gerald with expressions that ranged from surprise to excitement. One of them—she thought his name was Freddy—even rubbed his hands together and licked his lips.

  “For the last time, you’re not hunting them,” Astrid said. She glared at each of them in turn, before settling her disapproving gaze on their leader. “I’m paying you—very well, I might add—to help get my sister back. And unless you think you can take on the entire Siluit pack on your own, we’re going to need at least one other pack on our side.”

  Gerald gave a bored look. “All I’m saying is that if your negotiations happen to go sour, at least some good may come of it.”

  “Right.” Astrid pursed her lips, but didn’t comment further.

  When they’d set out over a week ago, the mercenaries had been kind, attentive, and eager to take direction from her. Gerald, with his twinkling eyes and easy smile, had reminded Astrid of her father, and she’d taken an instant liking to him.

  But with each kilometer they traveled away from civilization and into the wilderness, the men had become more willful. They often broke away to hold hushed conversations and Gerald’s smile now held a sinister edge to it. Out on the tundra, they were no longer men on her payroll. No one had explicitly said it, but it was obvious even to her: she was at their mercy.

  In fact, Astrid was pretty sure that even they didn’t realize how vulnerable she was. Only a scant paper trail—two plane tickets and a couple of discount motels—put her anywhere remotely near northern Canada, and her companions had insisted on being paid in cash. No one, not her boss, not her friends, and especially not her parents, had any idea where she was. And if the Canadian government and the US Embassy weren’t going to help her find Ginnifer, they certainly weren’t going to bother coming after Astrid if these men decided to leave her out here.

  Or worse.

  “So…how much does a werewolf pelt go for?” she asked. As much as she disliked werewolves, she had no intention of hunting them. But right now, she needed the men to keep liking her, and to stay on her side. Besides, once they actually met the werewolves and saw how human they were, they wouldn’t dare kill them for profit. At least, that was the argument that Ginnifer had made at the end of her documentary, The Wolves of Nunavut.

  “Depends,” Gerald said, eyeing her interest now. “The regular ones go for twenty-five and the alphas, they go for fifty to sixty. Now, you’d think the little ones would go for less, but their fur is soft—they make good ladies’ coats. Those ones will fetch you an even hundred.”

  “A hundred bucks to kill a baby wolf?” Astrid said, taking a sip of her coffee to mask her disdain. She wouldn’t kill a real wolf for that much, let alone one that could shift into a little kid.

  “Thousand,” Gerald corrected. “One hundred thousand.”

  She nearly choked on her coffee and had to cough several times to clear her airway. Around the fire, several of the men chuckled.

  Just one of the regular pelts was worth more than the collective twelve thousand she’d paid the men to take her into the arctic wilderness. Now, she had to seriously consider whether they were using her to get close to the pack. Was she just a diversion to lull the Amarok pack into a false sense of security? Once the wolves let their guard down, what was to stop these gun-toting mercenaries from decimating their pack?

  Astrid suddenly felt numb, both with the realization that she might be being played, and with the knowledge that it didn’t change anything. Even if she could convince the men to take her back, she’d sooner risk the lives of these werewolves than leave Nunavut without her sister.

  “I think I’m going to turn in for the night,” Astrid said, moving to stand.

  “You’ll miss your wolves,” Gerald warned, causing her to freeze.

  “What makes you think they’ll come tonight?” she asked.

  Gerald reached into his pocket, pulling out the map Astrid had given him the week before. It was a plain fold-up map of Nunavut, one that Ginnifer had gotten from a rest station the year before, when she’d first set foot in the region. What set it apart from normal maps, and the reason it was utterly invaluable, was that on it, Ginnifer had outlined the boundaries of the forty-two shifter territories in Nunavut. The map included the type of shifter—everything ranging from wolves, to bears, to lynx—and the name of each pack. Some of the shaded areas even included the name of the pack’s alpha.

  What it didn’t include were the packs’ primary hunting grounds, or the locations of their dens. Even the Siluit pack, where Ginnifer had spent a full s
eason filming, was shrouded in the same vague ambiguity as the others. Ginnifer had said that this was for the shifters’ protection, as she feared that if the den locations fell into the wrong hands, it could lead to wide-scale poaching. By the lusty gleam in Gerald’s eyes, Astrid could see that her sister had been right.

  “We crossed into their territory six hours ago,” Gerald said, rubbing a scarred finger over the Amarok territory.

  Located towards the center of Nunavut, the four hundred square kilometer Amarok territory shared an eastern border with Siluit, the territory where Ginnifer was currently being held captive. There were two other packs that shared a border with Siluit, but she knew from the documentary and from snippets of conversations with Ginnifer that the Amarok pack was not only the most feared pack in the area, but also Siluit’s blood rivals. If any pack was going to help her get Ginnifer back, it was them.

  “When do you think they’ll arrive?” she asked.

  “It depends on how far their den is from here, but I’d guess they already have our scent. It’s only a matter of time.” Gerald frowned at her. “You nervous?”

  Her brows rose. “No, of course not.”

  She wasn’t the least bit nervous about meeting the werewolves. No matter how strong the wolves were, the mercenaries were armed to the teeth. If, as she was sure Gerald was hoping, the negotiations did turn sour, the wolves wouldn’t stand a chance.

  But she was nervous about one thing. She was afraid that Gerald and his men wouldn’t give her a chance to negotiate. If they attacked the wolves on sight, it may ruin any hope she had of finding Ginnifer. That twelve thousand dollars was all she had and it wasn’t even hers, it was what she’d more or less stolen from Ginnifer’s bank account after forging her sister’s signature. Astrid’s own bank account only had a comma on payday, so there was no way she’d be able to fund another expedition.

  After putting the map away, Gerald reached into his pocket and produced a metal flask. He unscrewed the cap and offered it up to her. Astrid gave it a dubious look, and before she decided whether or not to accept it, Gerald retracted his hand.

  “You are old enough, aren’t you?”

  She hated that it was a genuine question. With a scowl, she reached out and snatched the flask from him.

  People were always questioning her age, something that her mother assured her would make her quite happy someday. But at twenty-eight—only two years away from the big three-oh—she was over being mistaken for a high school student. She attributed this to her round face, which despite her best efforts and hundreds of dollars in contouring makeup, refused to be anything but a baby face.

  Mostly out of spite, she downed the contents of the flask, not so much as flinching, even though the liquid tasted like ass. Despite her paranoia about her companions, she wasn’t worried about Gerald drugging her. She’d seen him nursing the flask himself for most of the evening.

  The camp erupted in laughter again, all save for Gerald, who pulled the flask from her grasp. His face turned sullen as he shook it, finding it empty.

  Astrid rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you have plenty more of that hooch stashed away.”

  “Damn right I do,” he grumbled, pocketing the flask. “But you better hope those wolves don’t come tonight, ‘cause you aren’t going to be in any shape to negotiate shit.”

  Astrid just stuck her tongue out, a gesture certain to make her look even more immature.

  She lingered at the fire, opting to eat a small portion of beans so as not to drink on an empty stomach. The hooch turned out to be quite strong, and though she’d never been particularly bad at holding her alcohol, her head quickly began to spin. Before long, she was crouched in the snow, listening slack-jawed as Might-Be-Named-Freddy recounted the time his hunting party encountered a yeti.

  Cheeks feeling flushed, she leaned against Noona. The dog fidgeted slightly, before turning to lick Astrid’s face. Astrid suppressed a smile. She had never liked dogs, but over the past year, Ginnifer’s husky had grown on her. With as much as Ginnifer had been away, working on her documentary, doing interviews, and attending conferences and film festivals, Noona was practically Astrid’s dog.

  Noona continued to grow increasingly restless, but in her inebriated state, Astrid didn’t take notice until a low growl began to rumble in the husky’s chest. Astrid glanced around at the men, who were all still engaged in boisterous conversation. None of them seemed to notice the dog’s distress.

  Looking past them, she gazed out over the icy landscape. The territory was full of rugged hills and jagged mountains, but Gerald and his men had chosen to set up camp in a relatively flat and open area. According to them, the mountains wouldn’t protect them from the wolves, but rather trap them in. Out in the open, any wolves that approached would be exposed.

  Astrid saw nothing in the distance, just snow and the barest glow of a sun that never quite seemed to set. Her gaze shifted to Noona.

  “What’s up with you?” she said, keeping her voice low. Noona stopped growling, but remained tense.

  She thought of saying something to the men, but remembered her first night on the expedition. Both she and Noona had gotten worked up over every rabbit and weasel they’d heard in the snow. During a windless night on the tundra, the vast wilderness became a vacuum for sound. The smallest disturbance was enough to make a person jump out of their skin.

  “Relax, girl,” Astrid murmured, rubbing Noona behind one ear. The husky gave a soft whimper and licked her face once again. “Come on, let’s get some shut eye.”

  Astrid stood on shaky feet, announcing to the men that she was going to take a nap. She asked that they wake her at any sign of wolves, and received vague grunts in response. Marginally satisfied, she headed to her tent, which was pitched only a short distance behind the men’s. Her companions had opted to share a tent, something that she’d found odd until they actually got out onto the tundra. Away from the comfort of a campfire, the air was blisteringly cold. If she hadn’t brought Noona with her, Astrid would have caved the first night and huddled up with the men in their tent.

  She kicked the snow from her boots as best she could before unzipping the flap and stepping into her tent. Per usual, Noona made this effort useless, as she not only tracked in clumps of snow, but also paused to shake the snow from her fur. Astrid didn’t bother to lecture her. She slumped over in the small space between the wall of the tent and her supplies. Somewhere amongst her bags were bedclothes, but she hadn’t even tried to change into them in over a week. Although sleeping was miserable on the tundra, some of the misery was mitigated with each layer of clothing she wore.

  For once, she wasn’t worried about being raped or murdered in her sleep. This was likely due to the alcohol, and she decided that was a good thing. If she wasn’t raped or murdered, she’d at least get a few hours of peaceful rest. It was with that thought, that she closed her eyes.

  It felt like only moments had passed when her eyes snapped open. The unmistakable sound of gunfire sent her shooting up, wide awake and alert. Noona began to bark and took up a frenzied pacing in front of the tent flap.

  The guns were still firing as Astrid stood and unzipped the flap, fury making her actions quick and jerky.

  “I can’t believe them,” she hissed as she stepped outside. Icy wind blasted her face, stunning her for a split second. She raised a hand to shield her eyes and wobbled slightly as she stood. At first, she thought it was the wind making her stagger, but she quickly recognized that she must not have slept for all that long, because she was still rather drunk.

  Astrid rubbed her eyes, blinked once, twice, and then screamed. As if materializing from the snow, a massive white wolf lunged for her, its jaws open wide. She had hardly processed what was happening when Noona barreled into the wolf’s side. The husky was only half the size of the white wolf, but she managed to knock it off its trajectory, if only for a moment.

  In her brief respite, Astrid was able to take in th
e campsite around her, and it was something out of a nightmare. The men weren’t attacking the wolves, the wolves were attacking them, and it was a slaughter.

  The snow was soaked with blood. She could make out at least two bodies, and watched in horror as Might-Be-Named-Freddy was wrestled to the ground by an even larger snow-white wolf. The wolf pressed a massive paw onto the man’s chest, and then proceeded to rip his arm off. The arm, and the gun that it had held, were flung carelessly aside. The man’s agonized scream was then silenced by a brutally efficient bite to the neck.

  During her long days in the office, Astrid had occasionally imagined how she would react in a life or death situation. While procrastinating paperwork, she had extensively planned what she would do in the event that her plane was hijacked. She also knew what she’d do if, while she was pleading with the teller to waive a fee, the bank was held up by a band of robbers. In all of her scenarios, she would save the day, become a national hero, meet Anderson Cooper, and go on to write a bestselling memoir. In one scenario in particular, she’d never have any overdraft fees again for the rest of her life.

  But as she stood in the middle of the carnage, watching as the men she’d hired were torn limb from limb by over a dozen bloodthirsty wolves the size of lions, she felt sublimely disillusioned. Every muscle in her body seemed to lock into place, even her breathing stopped. All of the sounds—the screaming, the snarling, and the gunfire—seemed to meld together into a single deafening reverberation.

  The wolf that had tried to attack her regained its footing and prepared itself for another lunge. Astrid knew that this was the moment that she was supposed to come to her senses, shake off her fear, and act. In fact, as an animal, she only had two choices: fight or flight.

  But apparently, she was as bad at being an animal as she was at being a hero, because she watched the wolf come at her again, and was still unable to react. The entire situation felt so surreal, as though it was happening to someone else and she was just watching, like a passive viewer on one of her sister’s documentaries.