KNUD, Her Big Bad Wolf: 50 Loving States, Kansas

by Theodora Taylor

  Knud had loved that story. Had asked for it often, even after they left the Viking Era. But it had turned out tragically, and there was one thing he’d failed to glean. As his mother preached, most stories were warnings, passed down through the generations to teach vital lessons.

  Especially the ones told by wolves.

  If this story was still being told to this day, there was a reason for it. Yes, spontaneous heats happened but they often came at an unusual price.

  Even though his mate was pregnant, he would not remain human on full moon nights. Just as the wolf prince couldn’t stay human for his new bride.

  “Fuck!” he cursed. But his curse came out as a low growl.

  As did his, “No, Layla, don’t run! It’s not safe outside!” when she started backing away toward the door.

  But his warning only made the inevitable happen faster. Before he could stop her, his mate was off. Running away. Running away just as she vowed not to do earlier. From the man who’d just turned into an overlarge wolf in front of her.

  29

  Kukunniwi Woods

  She jumped.

  The memory of his mate diving off the dock to escape after he’d failed to herd her back toward the cabin haunted Knud. As soon as he returned to his human form the next morning, he immediately made his way back to the spot where she’d fallen in.

  And there he stood, groggy and dazed, at the edge of the dark, churning water…remembering how the river took L-heart in a flash. Carrying her away from him so fast, he could barely keep up with her even in wolf form. He’d watched her small, wet head bob beneath the surface as he ran along beside her on the bank. The current was strong and he worried even a girl as well trained in survival skills as she was would not have the strength to swim to safety.

  Knud had jumped into the river after her, determined to help her or drown trying.

  But then he’d realized she was moving with deliberate purpose, swimming parallel with the water using a combination of freestyle and breast strokes he’d instantly recognized as the combat sidestroke favored by Navy Seals.

  Knud cheered realizing his mate more than had the skills to make it across the river. But then a boat engine appeared, bobbing along on the rapids, a physical reminder of a time when vehicles still ran on gas. The engine was ancient and very solid. Knud had been surprised an object that heavy could float at all…a testament to the strength of the current.

  Unfortunately for L-heart, the bulky, rusted engine made a beeline straight for her. When she came up for her next breath, it slammed into her head and instantly knocked her out before Knud could get out so much as a yelp of warning.

  The only bit of luck he had afterward was that Layla also wasn’t dense enough to sink into the river. Her unconscious body popped up a few seconds later. But then the real nightmare began.

  Wolves can swim. But not very fast. And no matter how hard he tried, Knud couldn’t catch up.

  After knocking her into a few rocks, the rapids finally deposited her on the other side of the river. Leaving him to follow her to the shore in what felt like hours later.

  He’d grabbed the back of her t-shirt in his jaws and dragged her onto the river bank. Then he performed an initial scan even though he had no AI and was still in wolf form.

  She was breathing, but her breaths were shallow. He sniffed her head and smelled the blood underneath. Brain bleed. Not good. His nose also picked up the scent of several broken capillaries all over her body.

  But the head injury worried him most. She need a doctor. Now. Not in 12 to 14 hours when Knud finally turned back into a human. That’s when he caught scent of the men.

  The small group of hunters thought they were chasing down a large wolf that had suddenly appeared in their camp as they wound down with a few pre-dinner beers. The damn thing’d had the temerity to run off with a stick holding three freshly skinned rabbits they’d been about to roast over a campfire.

  The men finally located their rabbits less than a few meters away from their campsite. Next to the body of a young woman who appeared to have washed up on the river bank…

  Knud watched from afar as the situation unfolded, including when the paramedics arrived in a drone to collect her.

  And now here he was, back in his human form—the shreds of the tracksuit he’d borrowed from Qim’s room long gone thanks to his time in the river.

  Was she dead?

  No, he insisted to himself as he began the long walk back to the cabin.

  She was strong. She could survive anything.

  She couldn’t be dead.

  He’d know if she were. Because she was his mate.

  And Knud would find her. As soon as he figured out who the hell she was.

  Thankfully, the mystery of her identity was solved much sooner than he expected.

  Knud found the whole gang, minus Qim and Jandro, waiting for him at the end of the gravel path near Founder’s Cabin. His brother’s face was little more than a thundercloud.

  “You fucking idiot! How could you let this happen!?” Rafes demanded, storming down the porch steps toward him. “How could you let her leave the house on a full moon night?”

  “Son, calm down,” Rafe Sr. advised, gripping Rafes’ shoulder. He looked just as displeased about the situation as his eldest son. But he also had years of self-calming techniques under his belt.

  “Yes, Dad, you’re right. I need to calm down,” Rafes shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because now I have to go back to my office and put in a call to the president of the United States. Why? So she can put in a call to Eva Rustanov and assist me with the damage control this situation will need to avoid the long-held truce between our human and werewolf governments being declared null and void. Because my fucking moron of a brother decided to play cute little sex games with and mate a human!”

  Knud shook his head in confusion. He didn’t disagree with Rafes’ assessment of his character—he was often an idiot and a moron. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what former two-term U.S. President Eva Rustanov had to do with any of this.

  Until the shoe dropped… And he suddenly realized why he’d vaguely recognized Layla that time when she appeared younger than her years. Like a teenager.

  A childhood memory unfolded. Of his mother’s eyes shining bright with tears as their entire family watched Eva Rustanov, her hand on a Bible, be sworn in as the first black female president of the United States.

  But just in case Knud had any doubts about this latest revelation, Rafes shot him a nasty glare and said, “Congratulations, dickwad. You just impregnated and possibly killed America’s Favorite First Daughter.”

  Part 3

  I don't do complicated

  and she's a walking,

  talking (way too much)

  Complication.

  30

  Wolf Haven, Oklahoma… Now

  “Put the guns down! Put the guns down now!” Jared yells at one of the richest families in America. It’s been years since Jared transitioned from my Secret Service guard to a Rustanov employee, but his reflexes are still set to shield and defend. He moves in front of me, pushing me back as he aims his Sig Sauer between two bars in the gate.

  The three people on the other side drop their shotguns, but no one raises their hands. And only one person speaks—the woman who I recognize as Tu Ataneq, the half-Inuit, half-black “Alaska oil princess” responsible for the Wulfkonig family’s current success.

  However, instead of fawning over me and telling me how much she loves my mother like most black women her age do, she glares at me hard and silent.

  She may no longer be holding a gun, but I feel like an intruder as she calls out, “This is a privileged land! Protected under the North American Lupus Pact. You are not allowed beyond these gates without an executive order from a sitting president.”

  “Get in the car, Shimmer,” Jared says without taking his eyes off the three individuals.

  Once again, I’m forced to be diffi
cult. I can guess what my family’s PR team will have to say about this when they get Jared’s daily report.

  I push past my guard to get as close as I can to the widest gap in the gate. I want the people on the other side to see my empty hands. Then hoping no one decides to pick up a gun and shoot, I speak sign, “Hello, my name is—”

  “We know who you are. Why are you here?” Qim Wulfkonig signs, interrupting me. It’s clear from his greeting that he’s not the father of my baby, or even an admirer. Qim glares at me hard as if waiting for me to make the next move.

  “Shimmer…” Jared intones behind me. My old White House codename sounds like a warning of bad things to come.

  But I try again, this time signing, “I came to speak about J-A-N-D-R-O.” Just signing, no speaking. That way unless Jared records me on his bioware—which is strictly forbidden—he’ll have no way to report what I say back to my father.

  “You cannot take him from us. He’s happy here. Thriving,” Qim signs.

  “Growing stronger!” Grady adds like a proud grandfather.

  “He likes living with us. Likes having a family he can trust,” Tu signs, her expression softening. “And we like—we LOVE having him with us. He makes our family complete.”

  But Qim’s expression is more determined than soft as he finishes with, “You cannot take him away. We tell him he has a forever home with us. We make promise to him. Breaking promise would traumatize him. We will NOT break promise.”

  I stare at them, and they stare right back at me, looking as if they’ll pick up the shotguns if that’s what it takes to convince me to back down.

  “Lower your weapons,” I say out loud to Jared and Santiago.

  No response, which is Bodyguard-speak for “request denied” when you don’t want to argue with a client in a tense situation like this.

  But I insist. “Lower your weapons. That’s an order.”

  There’s another long measure of hesitation, then the two guards lower their guns to their sides, technically following orders but staying at the ready.

  I accept their half-concession, and the three people across from me take a few more steps forward. They’re close enough to scent, and I’m not as surprised as I should be to discover they smell a lot like the cabin minus all the wood…

  Kindred. The word floats into my head again, making me wonder if I’m wrong about all this. If my brain injury didn’t just take away six months of my memory, but also my sanity.

  But acting on faith, I sign, “You remember me, but I don’t remember you. I CANNOT remember you.”

  I explain my situation, telling them how I woke up on a river bank about eight miles from their campground with no memory of my past. “Can you tell me what happened? Do you know how I ended up on the riverbank?”

  The three family members look at each other, and I get the feeling they’re worried whatever they say could put Jandro’s adoption at risk.

  “Have you found a therapist for Jandro with grief counseling experience?” I ask, switching to a topic that addresses what is probably most on their mind.

  “YES,” Qim assures me, knocking his hand emphatically. “He meets her once a week. He also enrolled in our town school for the deaf. And we look now for a LSM tutor for whole family.”

  I nod, though my response is an understatement for how impressed I am. They’ve gone above and beyond what I would have recommended as the bare minimum for a foster-to-adopt situation, and the Mexican Sign Language tutor is a great touch. They’re definitely not treating Jandro like a walking, signing purse. But the fact that my assessment is still incomplete remains an issue.

  “Did something happen with Jandro? Has he been hurt or is there any other reason I maybe had to give you a bad assessment?” I ask.

  Qim shakes his head emphatically. “Jandro’s adoption has nothing to do with what happened to you. I’m sorry it happened. But we’re not at fault.”

  I trust my gut when it comes to people—at least I did before Ethan, apparently. But since I have no emotional memory of what went down between Ethan and I, I am still inclined to listen to my instincts. And that’s why even though I can see how defensive Qim is, I listen to my gut when it says to me he’s telling the truth.

  “Then I don’t care what you tell me…no matter how bad it is. I promise I won’t give the information to the DWCS. Please tell me what happened that day. Please tell me the truth.”

  More hesitation and exchanged glances greet my promise. I sign, “I’m pregnant,” in the hopes this might push them to spill the beans they seem so reluctant to let go of.

  My guards don’t react. That’s not surprising. After all, they don’t know ASL.

  But the Wulfkonigs' also don’t react to this news. And that takes me by surprise. Which can only mean…

  “You already knew,” I say, my heart icing over. “How?”

  31

  Drummond, Texas… Now

  “Knud Rasmussen Nightwolf… that’s an interesting name,” says the bulky guy in the tailored suit. He no doubt reviewed Knud’s credentials via his bioware before showing up at the compound’s front guard station to escort Knud onto the premises.

  Knud has never been a fan of small talk—especially about his personal life. But he forces himself to say, “Famous 20th century anthropologist. My mom’s a…”

  “History professor. Yeah, we know.”

  Of course, they know. That and almost everything else about him, including the black ops background he’d purposefully hadn’t included in his application for med school.

  Knud has literally been trying to get to Layla Rustanov, the mother of his child, for months. Only to be blocked at every turn. Had she been anyone else, he would have gotten to her in three days, three weeks tops. Seriously, it only took him three weeks to get to the president of Alarus after what happened with his brother, Nago. But Layla Rustanov is an operative’s worst nightmare.

  Her mother is a former U.S. president, which means her Texas home is constantly under the highest official level of security. To top it off, her father is a goddamn Russian oligarch with enemies on top of enemies.

  Alexei Rustanov taught his daughter to protect herself, and both she and her sister, Alma have undergone extensive martial, weapon, and combat training. But as soon as Layla had been found, he’d locked her up so tight in his Texas compound, she might as well have been in a tower with an actual dragon in front of it.

  Actually, even that would have been better. Knud spent years as a soldier in the cold war between dragon and wolf shifters. So he knew how to slay dragons.

  But Alexei Rustanov was a whole ‘nother story. And as a result, Knud had been forced to do a whole lot of shit he vowed he’d never do.

  Like ask Rafes for help. When the reports about Layla Rustanov being successfully brought out of her medically induced coma started rolling in, Knud had gone to his brother on his proverbial knees. And then had to put up with about an hour’s worth of “I told you so’s” while chanting Layla’s name in his head to keep himself from wolfing out or launching himself at Rafes’ throat. Then, in order to get Rafes to put in a call to the sitting president, he had to promise to come running whenever his brother called for an entire year.

  That should have been more than enough.

  But even Rafes hadn’t been able to convince the current president of the United States to call Eva Rustanov on Knud’s behalf. It probably didn’t help that Knud hadn’t officially existed on record since…oh, the age of 19 when he was recruited into his first black ops gig by the U.S. Marines. And the bits and pieces of highly classified information about Knud that the president had access to did not paint a pretty picture. Because he’d done things that even his five years as a pediatric surgeon couldn’t undo. In short, he wasn’t the kind of guy you’d happily agree to introduce to the powerful parents of a woman who people, including Knud’s older brother, still referred to as America’s Favorite First Daughter.

  So, Knud wasn’t surprised when Rafes receiv
ed a polite but swift “hell no” from the Oval Office. Which meant, heavy sigh, asking his brother for even more help.

  Finally, between Rafes and their other triplet, Nago, Knud managed to gain access to a floor plan for the compound. Then he resolutely pored over the details about the multiple renovations—not to mention a shitload of old internet articles—in order to figure out which room belonged to Layla.

  After monitoring the Texas compound for days to identify all the guards, Knud compiled a dossier on each member of the security personnel to see if any were having, say, financial difficulties he could leverage to gain access to the house.

  But it turned out Alexei Rustanov paid his guards well, and only a very few were allowed anywhere near his wife and children. Those individuals were extensively vetted and only permitted to join the family’s security rotation after at least a year of service. Then they were revetted every month and if they had so much as a missed credit card payment, they were pulled from the family’s team.

  Layla’s father was thorough and smart, and he’d made it impossible for anyone he hadn’t thoroughly vetted to get anywhere near his daughter.

  Knud imagined Rustanov was even more paranoid now than he had been before Layla’s accident. After all, for the first time ever her father had inexplicably relaxed his guard and let his daughter come to Kansas on her own last winter. And that small bit of freedom granted had ended with her being found half-drowned and unconscious on a Kansas river bank only a few months later.

  No wonder Layla had been so oddly thrilled by the seemingly mundane experiences she had with him. It made perfect sense now: she’d been over-the-top protected her entire life, and had never been given the opportunity to take risks and live her own life.

  Unfortunately, the fallout from her Kansas experiment was disastrous for Knud. In the end, he’d been forced to fall back on the one piece of his history he’d vowed never to revisit: his black ops past.