The Werewolf’s Bride
The Pack Rules #1
Michele Bardsley
She will marry the alpha…
Every 20 years, the Shadow Pack arrives in the small desert community of Bleed City, Nevada. To honor the pact made 150 years ago with the werewolves, the town offers up their eldest daughters for the Choosing--a ceremony where the shifters pick their virgin brides.
Like most werewolf packs, the Shadows need human females for mating and breeding so they can replenish their werewolf bloodlines. Arabelle Winton considers the entire process somewhat barbaric, but as the oldest female in her family, she must take her place among the other women. What she doesn't expect is to catch the interest of Alpha Greyson Burke.
Yes, Grey can have her body any way he wants... but Belle will never give her heart to a werewolf.
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This story is meant for mature audiences who are eighteen years and older.
One.
“I’M SO EXCITED,” said Cacie Lynn. “Just think, Belle! I could be engaged tomorrow!” She twirled around, her pink waitress skirt flaring and showing off her tanned legs. She wore her blonde hair in a single, long ponytail. She shone like the sun, that one, a pretty girl with a pretty smile.
And an empty head.
Cacie was sweet, she really was, but she wasn’t much of a thinker. Bless her heart. Barely eighteen-years-old, she hadn’t known much outside of our little desert community. At least I’d gotten in a few months of nursing school before I’d had to come back. I’d almost escaped—from this desolate patch of lonely earth and the destined fate of eldest daughters. But then Carolyn had died and as my bloodline’s next oldest female, I was obligated to return.
In Bleed City, Nevada, nothing was more important than family honor.
Cacie and I worked in the only diner in town, and town wasn’t much. The Road House Grill joined the Gas ‘N Go, Macpherson’s General Store, Aunt Lila’s Antiques, and the Bleed City Library as the sum total of occupied buildings. Our population hovered around 500 folks, give or take, and nearly all of us from families who’d lived in the area for generations. Bleed City was once a gold mining town—until the gold ran out and the miners moved on. Like so many of the ghost towns that populated the deserts of Nevada, Bleed City should’ve been left to rot and ruin.
Then the werewolves came.
The pact was made.
And that brings me right back to Cacie’s misplaced excitement about a possible engagement. Near as I could tell, the werewolves didn’t view courtship the same way humans did. They were ferocious and impatient. When it was time for the Choosing—every twenty years—a pack of young, full-of-themselves werewolves showed up, and Bleed City handed over their eldest daughters.
The pact that saved the town—the one that still held more than 150 years later—was simple enough. The werewolves protected its people, provided for every man, woman, and child so that no person would ever be without a roof over their heads or food in their bellies.
All we had to do was give them firstborn females for werewolf mating and breeding.
“I swear! You are such a Negative Nelly.” Cacie clucked her tongue. “For heaven’s sake, the alpha is looking for a mate. You know how often that happens?”
I shook my head.
“It’s been sixty years.” She let loose a dreamy sigh. “Marrying the alpha sure would be something, wouldn’t it?”
All Cacie’s talk of werewolf marriage was making me testy. Several us would be at the Choosing tomorrow, and my nerves were raw from thinking about it. “Lord-a-mercy! Werewolf this. Alpha that,” I said. “Don’t you have anything better to talk about it?”
“Hmph! Some of us are grateful for what God’s handed us.”
If she thought God had anything to do with her being a werewolf’s barefoot-and-pregnant bride, she was even dumber than I thought.
“We need to get back to work, Cacie. Why don’t you go scrub down the coffee maker?”
She sighed in the deeply profound fashion reserved for drama queens, and then flounced off. Thankfully, the brew machine was on the other side of the diner, so I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore of her jawing.
I grabbed the cleaner and paper towels and started wiping down counters and tables. No one was in the diner tonight, not even old Mr. Sanders, who usually wouldn’t go home until we did. I had to admit I was worried he hadn’t shown up, but every so often he dealt with the gout and stayed home. I decided to check on him, though, after we closed up. I didn’t have a car, not many of us did, but there was no crime in Bleed City, no lurching, sex-starved killers jumping out of bushes. So, we tended to walk. Everything in Bleed City was within five miles of everything else. It took time to get from here to there, but it was no real burden.
Thirty or so minutes later, we’d finished our chores and prepped everything for the morning shift. Cacie had kept her mouth shut the whole time, and I was grateful. Truth was, I was a big ol’ anxious mess about the Choosing. They called us mates or wives or whatever, but it still sounded like slavery to me. And the kicker? Werewolves wanted their females as pure as the driven snow. That’s exactly what a young virgin needed—some big, hairy man driving himself into her with his … his penis.
I felt myself blush to the roots of my hair. I was raised chaste and virginal, same as my sisters. Sex was not something we discussed—ever. My parents were good people with kind hearts. They also had firm rules about behavior. Going to nursing school had opened my eyes about human bodies, but I was still uncomfortable with the idea of physical intimacy. I’d been raised in such a staid and proper household, it was difficult to think about the word sex without wanting to throw myself at a Bible.
“Ready?” Cacie had changed into jeans, a T-shirt, and Nikes. She put on her hoodie and heaved her purse over her shoulder. She studied my hair, some of which had escaped its ponytail, and then dropped her gaze over my stained waitress dress. She even took three seconds to judge my shoes, which were comfortable, but ugly. “Are you crabby about the werewolves because you’re afraid you won’t get picked? It’s not like you’ll have to take a scruffer.”
Scruffers were the weakest members of the werewolf pack. They had some uses, so they weren’t outright killed, but it was rare that they merited mates. They had to settle for whatever scraps were handed to them by the stronger members—whether it was clothes or food or women.
I put on my jacket and stuffed my wallet into a pocket. Cacie walked out first. I switched off the lights and then followed her, turning briefly to lock the door.
“Are you?” she persisted as we stood outside.
“Am I what?”
She sighed as if she’d been talking Calculus to a four-year-old. “Are you afraid you won’t get chosen?”
“I hope I don’t.”
Her eyes widened. “Don’t say things like that, Arabelle Winton! I know you never expected to be part of the Choosing, but you’re doing right by the town. By all of us.”
Even though Cacie and I were only four years apart, I still felt like I was older, older than the whole world sometimes. I was exhausted, and all I wanted was a hot bath and a good night’s sleep.
“Oh, I don’t mean anything by it. Go on home, honey,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“All right then. Bye, Arabelle.”
“Bye.” I watched her disappear down Main Street. I sighed. Despite the sturdiness of my shoes, my feet ached something fierce. The whole of me was bone-tired. Still, it would only take five minutes to make sure Mr. Sanders was okay.
I headed toward the Bleed City Library. Mr. Sanders had been the town librarian until arthritis and old a
ge made the job too difficult. He still lived in the tiny cottage on the property, though. No one had the heart to make him move—not even the new librarian, Mr. Richards. He’d taken the room above Aunt Lila’s Antiques rather than oust Mr. Sanders from his home.
The little house was eerily dark and still. I swear the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up as I approached. I stopped, studying the square structure to see what had raised my hackles, but after a moment of listening and watching, I had no proof to sustain my worry.
I stepped onto the porch and knocked on the front door.
If it were possible, the strange quiet deepened, and I felt my stomach squeeze with trepidation.
Then I heard a long, harsh moan.
“Mr. Sanders? It’s Belle.” I pounded on the door. “You all right? You need some help?”
Crash! Was that glass breaking? Had he dropped dishes or knocked over a table full of knick knacks? Well, that was that. I figured politeness would have to be sacrificed to make sure the sweet old man wasn’t hurt—or worse.
No one in Bleed City locked their doors. So I wasn’t surprised when the knob turned easily in my hand. The door swung open and I inched inside, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the interior darkness.
“Mr. Sanders?” My voice came out a whisper. Fear chilled me from the inside out and goose bumps prickled my skin. I cleared my throat and tried again. This time my voice was stronger. “Mr. Sanders?”
I pressed my hand against the wall, feeling for a light switch. My fingers skittered over a picture frame. It fell off the wall and clattered to the floor. The sound exploded like thunder in the too silent house.
I froze. My heart thumped in my chest, so fast and so loud, I was sure people in the next county could hear it.
I sucked in a shaky breath. It did no good to let fear rule my actions. Scared out of my wits or not, I needed to stop acting like such a ninny. My eyesight had adjusted, and complete blackness had given way to shadowy shapes. I edged away from the wall, holding my hands out as I moved forward.
“Mr. Sanders?”
My hands brushed against what I easily recognized as a lamp shade. I felt my way under the flimsy material and around the base until my fingertips slid over the switch. I twisted it, and breathed a sigh of relief when dim, yellow light chased away the darkness.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest and took in the destruction. Good lord. The living room looked like a dust devil had whirled through it. The recliner near the hearth was overturned, the bookshelves on either side were divested of treasures, and the tall, antique bric-a-brac cabinet on the far wall had met a terrible end. Its glass planes were shattered and the contents inside hadn’t fared that much better.
My gaze dropped to the floor. I stared at the shredded books and busted objects. What had happened in here?
Then I saw Mr. Sanders’s bare feet poking out from behind the couch.
Oh no! I hurried around the bulky piece of furniture and nearly lost my footing. I’d slipped in a widening pool of blood, blood that seeped from the gaping wound in poor Mr. Sanders’s narrow chest.
It only took the briefest of moments for me shut away the horror of what I was witnessing. Rusty training kicked in, and though I knew it was useless, I still knelt down and felt his neck for a carotid pulse. Nothing. Of course there was nothing! The hole in the man’s chest was the size of a bowling ball. I studied the cavity. His ribcage had been shredded and his flesh told the tale of claws and teeth. Worst of all, his heart was missing.
Horror filled me.
Werewolf.
Two.
I STAYED THERE, holding vigil next to Mr. Sanders’s body, as I tried to invoke some remnant of calm.
Sweet, merciful God.
I knew the history of our shifter benefactors, the same as I knew the history of our town. Werewolves used to think of humans as prey. They might gnaw on arms or legs like puppies with chew toys, but they ate the hearts. Within the werewolf culture, the heart of a person, of any creature, held great spiritual and physical power. These days, the shifters claimed to have more refined appetites. Though still as carnivorous as their ancestors, their meals were supposed to be human-free. Even if that ideal didn’t hold true in the rest of the world, it was sacred in Bleed City.
If one of the wolves from the Shadow Pack, from our supposed protectors, had killed Mr. Sanders and eaten his heart—the pact was broken.
As much as I welcomed the idea of freedom, I was too bound by the duty owed my family and Bleed City. The very idea that the pact had been nullified scared me to bits.
What could I do?
What should I do?
Ribbons of hot panic and cold terror wound through me. I needed to get out of here. All I could think about was running home as fast as I could. If I unburdened this tragedy on my parents, they would help me.
No.
I felt an awful, sudden certainty that I shouldn’t involve my family.
Aunt Lila. She lived a couple blocks away, in the old pink Victorian that had been built the same year as the town—it had been the showy home of Bleed City’s first and only mayor. Aunt Lila was our elder and our liaison with the pack. Everyone trusted her, humans and werewolves. She would know what to do. Decision made, I tried to get to my feet. The floor was too slick from gore for my shoes to gain traction. I fell onto my ass and my hands pressed palm-flat to the floor.
The blood was still warm.
Just as I realized the significance—that the kill was fresh, I heard the low, warning growl.
I was no longer alone.
Maybe I’d never been alone, and the wolf was too clever and too stealthy, to let me know he’d been watching.
Waiting.
I scooted backward, my gaze never leaving the golden eyes of the huge wolf as he crept toward me. His fur was gnarled brown clumps and he was missing an ear. He crouched low, his muscles bunched as if readying to pounce. His menacing snarl revealed sharp, bloodied canines.
If he clamped that massive jaw around my throat, I was a goner.
My fingers slid over a piece of jagged glass. I didn’t break eye contact with the wolf as I grasped the large shard.
He saw the movement of my hand.
He let out a wild cry and leapt.
As his paws hit my shoulders and threw me to the floor, I jabbed the glass as hard as I could into his throat.
My hand slipped down the make-shift weapon. My skin sliced open, though I felt no pain as my own blood gushed onto the wolf’s matted fur. Then the glass broke in my grip, the pieces falling away.
Even though I’d hit the mark, it had not been enough to completely deter the creature. However, the rasp of his growls told me I’d done damage.
I pressed my injured hand against his wound, which barely kept him at bay. He snapped and snarled inches from my face. Blood-tainted spittle dripped onto my neck.
The adrenaline that made my heart rate spike also gave me the strength to fight.
I curled my other hand into a fist and punched him in the head over and over again.
And still I pushed against his throat, hoping that little bit of glass might sever something important enough to make him fully retreat.
Or kill him.
My arms started to shake. I was sweating and panting hard and utterly consumed by panic. My strength was giving out. I stopped hitting the monster with my fist and used both hands to push on his throat.
Yet, I knew with abhorrent certainty that my life would soon belong to the wolf.
Then I heard a voice in my mind, the wispy memory of a self-defense class I had taken while at nursing school. If an attacker gets you down on the ground, put your feet on his hips and push. He’ll go down or you’ll go up. Either way, it’s a chance to get free.
I had nothing to lose.
I raised my trembling legs, and put my shoes right on his bony hips.
I shoved with all my might.
The wolf yelped as I was propelled backwards. He was thrust away
from me and he stumbled. Blood gushed from his neck, and his tongue lolled out as he dragged in rattling breaths. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed the first thing I laid my hands on—the lamp.
The creature growled and came at me again, but he was a lot slower this time. I yanked the cord free of the wall as I swung the lamp and smashed it against his skull. He went down onto his side and I began hitting him. It didn’t matter that the house was dark again and my human vision was limited. I had purpose. The shade got crushed, the bulb broke, and the ceramic base threatened to shatter in my hands, but I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop.
Tears and blood and sweat dripped from my face and my hands. Finally, the lamp broke and slipped out of my grasp. I sucked in huge breaths, sobbing so hard my head clogged and my throat closed.
The wolf was dead.
The front door burst open—and by burst, I meant it was knocked off its hinges and turned into a pile of sticks. Why would anyone do that? The door wasn’t locked.
I was too tired and too wobbly to care. Whatever came inside next could have me—I’d throw myself down in front of it, wolf or man.
“Christ. We’re too late.” The exclamation came from the large blond-haired man who held a sword. I blinked. Yes. That was definitely a sword. His disgusted gaze went from the wolf to me. “I don’t believe it, Grey. The human female killed him.”
I shifted my gaze to the second man—the one named Grey. He was a little taller, a little bigger. His muscles bulged in the blue T-shirt he wore tucked into a pair of tight jeans. He had the longest, silkiest, blackest hair of anyone I’d ever seen.
“I—” Words failed me. My throat hurt something awful and my mouth was as dry as the desert. Dizziness assailed me and I felt like the ground was shifting beneath my feet. I managed to point to Mr. Sanders’s body and whisper, “Hurt.”
“Whoa now, sweetheart,” said the blond. He sheathed the sword—in a scabbard he wore strapped to his back—and stepped forward, but Grey reached me first.
The Werewolf’s Bride: The Pack Rules #1 Page 1
