by Liza Street
Fierce Lover
The Sierra Pride, Book 8
Liza Street
Description
This is the final installment of the Sierra Pride series!
Starla Fournier never thought she’d see her loved ones again, and that included Rourke Mackenzie, her childhood friend. Plagued by guilt and shame from the circumstances surrounding her disappearance, she’s finally reunited with her family. The reunion is tainted by the knowledge that her adoptive pride is anxious for her return. Worst of all, seeing Rourke after all these years will make her question arrangements that have already been set in motion—arrangements that will interfere with their chance to be together.
A wolf shifter, Rourke Mackenzie has spent the last eighteen years trying to forget Starla. He finds absolution in the flames he battles as a firefighter, in the bottom of a bottle, and in the arms of a long string of one-night-stands. When he finally sees Starla again, the wolf inside of him wants nothing more than to claim her as his, but his human side can’t ignore the betrayal of her disappearance. Just when he thinks they’ll be able to resolve their differences, a dangerous shifter steps forward to claim her. Rourke will have to act fast in order to protect his mate.
Content warning: This sexy shapeshifter novelette includes a happily-ever-after, as well as explicit love scenes and naughty language. It is intended for adults.
Discover more at Liza Street’s website.
Join Liza’s Awesome Readers Group and get Book 2, Fierce Heartbreaker, FREE, as well as an exclusive short story! Visit Liza’s free book page for details: https://lizastreet.wordpress.com/free-book/
The Sierra Pride Series:
For optimal reader enjoyment, the author recommends reading these books in the following order; however, each one stands alone and contains a happily-ever-after.
Fierce Wanderer
Fierce Heartbreaker
Fierce Protector
Fierce Player
Fierce Dancer
Fierce Informer
Fierce Survivor
Fierce Lover
Chapter One
As her parents’ rental car coasted along the curve of the driveway, Starla was struck with longing. This place, the Sierra Pride territory, hadn’t gone up in flames. The summer air was warm through her open window, and the scents of the dry grasses tickled her nose. This place was familiar, because it had once been her home.
“You doing okay, Starla-girl?” her dad asked.
Thirty years old, and she still couldn’t shake the nickname he’d given her when she came to him at age eleven. “Doing good so far, Dad.”
Her mom reached back to touch Starla’s hand. Even though Starla had come to them illegally, through tragedy and for the gains of a crooked adoption agent, she’d been lucky in her placement with them. They were a good family.
Her breath hitched as the house came into view. In her mind, the big farmhouse had been nothing but charred rubble, but there it was, rising up from the ground.
A crowd of people stood on a patio by the side of the house, and as one unit they rushed forward, eagerly standing around the car. Starla stepped out, wondering if this was how celebrities felt as they climbed from a limo to stand on the red carpet, surrounded by photographers and fans.
So far, they were a group of nameless faces, but they shuffled her forward into the house. Starla turned, looking for her parents. They each gave her a smile and followed behind.
Once inside, the crush of her brothers and sisters all pressing into her was surreal. The last time she saw them, their bodies were going up in smoke from a fire she’d started. Every night for nearly twenty years she’d had nightmares of their blackened corpses pointing skeletal fingers in her direction. Your fault, Starla. Your fault.
Last week, a phone call had changed everything. “Can I please speak to Starla? Starla Fournier?”
“This is Starla.”
“Oh my god, it’s really her,” the man had said, sounding farther away. He wasn’t talking to her, but to someone else.
“I’m sorry,” Starla had said, “but what is this about?” Outside the small Florida tract home she shared with her parents, the occasional car passed by. A fly had been stuck inside and buzzed against the window. She was starting to feel trapped herself, wanting to go for a run as a mountain lion, wanting to get free of her body and the confines of the house. The sooner the call was over, the better.
“This is your brother, Gabriel.”
“I don’t know what kind of sick joke you’re playing—”
“No, hear me out.”
She’d almost hung up the phone, but something about the way he spoke made her pause. “I’m listening.”
It had turned out that in some kind of B-movie-worthy scheme, the “nice” man who had taken her from her burned house and family had actually kidnapped her and hypnotized her into believing her entire family was dead. Meanwhile, the way he’d taken her had suggested to her family that Starla had been brutally murdered, although her body had never been recovered.
She’d never been recovered because she’d been right here, living in Florida, trying to forget the ghosts of her past.
She hadn’t wanted to talk to Gabriel for long. There was so much information. Her birth parents and Aunt Nan had passed, which filled her with a new, separate grief. But her brothers and sisters were all very much alive and they had very much wanted to see her. She’d agreed to come out for this visit to reunite with her family, on the condition that her adoptive parents were also welcome. And now she was here, trapped in this horde of people, wondering if she’d ever sort out who was who.
“Okay, folks, let the woman breathe,” an unfamiliar female voice said from across the room.
The press of bodies lessened, and although everyone was still within arm’s length, Starla could breathe a little easier.
Starla shot a thankful expression at the woman, who wore cut-off jeans and a green t-shirt. The woman’s blond hair was up in a messy bun, and a girl who looked seven or eight stood at her side, staring at Starla with unabashed interest.
“I’m Ava,” the woman said, holding out a hand. “Jude is my mate.”
Starla nodded. Jude was her second-oldest brother—he’d been born after Gabriel. A man stood off to the side, chatting easily with Starla’s parents. The caramel color of his eyes told her immediately he was Jude.
Ava continued, “This is our daughter, Chloe.”
Starla shook Ava’s hand, then turned to the girl. For some reason, she felt like it would be easier to talk to a kid than to the adults. “Hi, Chloe. How are you?”
“Good. I’m glad you’re back.”
“Aw, thanks.” Starla’s intuition had been right. This was easy, talking to Chloe. “How old are you?”
“I’m six.”
“Ooh, what a special age. You’ll be doing your betrothal ceremony next year, right?”
Chloe wrinkled her nose, and Ava’s eyes went round in shock.
“My what?” Chloe asked.
Starla’s cheeks felt hot. “Right. Sorry. I forgot the Sierra Pride doesn’t do things that way.”
“It’s different in the Everglades Pride?” Ava asked.
Starla nodded, but inside she was thinking, Very different.
Luckily there’d been enough extra chatter going on throughout the room that no one seemed to have overheard the awkward exchange. There were other unfamiliar women in the room, and unfamiliar men, as well. Even two babies, and the tall Asian woman looked like she was midway through a pregnancy. The living room of her childhood home—the home she’d believed burned to the ground—was full of people. Her birth pride had grown, and was still growing.
&
nbsp; Two young women got closer, and Starla recognized them by scent, if not by sight. “Cora and Justine,” she whispered. The twins. They’d been just four years old when Starla had killed them—or when she’d thought she killed them.
Being here, surrounded by all the people she’d thought dead, was making everything come back. All the screams that had tormented her, all the smoke, all the bright flames. She’d learned a week ago that those terrifying memories had been a lie, but a week wasn’t enough to erase nineteen years of false memories.
Mom and Dad—her adoptive parents—stood awkwardly near the doorway, so Starla went to them and shyly started to introduce them around. As they went, Starla learned the names of the strangers in the room—the mates and babies of her brothers and sisters.
Her mom’s hand was warm and dry in her own, and her dad’s almond-y scent was a balm. Thank goodness the two of them had both come along with her. Mom and Dad would go back to Florida tomorrow, to “allow Starla a chance to get reacquainted with her family and assure them of her happiness in Florida,” as the Pride Elders had agreed to. Starla had balked at their patronizing tone when they gave their “permission” for her to visit, but at least they’d also allowed her parents to come and serve as a solid transition between the two worlds.
Lunch was announced, with her youngest brother, Maverick, offering her a bet on his barbecue sauce tasting better than anything she’d ever tried. She shook her head again, trying to get rid of the feeling of surreality—the last time she saw Maverick, he was two, and she’d never imagined him aging beyond that.
Everyone hurried out to the patio. Starla’s mouth dropped open. When she was a kid, the patio had been a low deck of worn planks, with some splintered benches and chairs. Now it was smooth flagstone, with a pergola overhead, twinkle lights woven into it. The outdoor furniture had been expertly made, and she wondered which of her family members was a carpenter. But when she brushed against Blake, she felt too shy to ask.
Her parents were ahead, standing at the other end of the potluck-style table, filling their plates and making small talk with Jude and Ava.
“Doing okay?” Blake asked, squeezing her arm.
“Yeah,” Starla said. She could ask him now about the patio furniture. She could ask him about his life, about those twin babies who smelled like him. She could ask him how he met his mate, the dark-haired woman with the twinkling blue eyes. She could ask him anything—except she couldn’t manage to open her mouth to say anything else.
The love was present here—she felt it, and she felt buoyed by it. But at the same time, these were strangers who had all moved on while she was stuck in memories of their deaths.
She had a three-day visit to get over all of that, and then she’d probably never see them again.
Chapter Two
Another two-day shift, done. Rourke looked out past the fire station, out toward the hills behind Santa Cruz. His snug cabin, near the best dive bar on this part of the coast, was waiting. He slapped hands with the other guys from the station before heading out to his truck. Now he could head up to the woods and stop pretending to be the easy-going, happy-go-lucky firefighter he pretended to be during work.
Now he could just be Rourke: a wolf shifter who ignored his pack and did whatever the fuck he wanted. Bars in the evenings, where he could usually find a woman who didn’t care whether he was pleasant or not. Most of them could overlook his pissy personality in favor of his physique coupled with his faint Manchester accent, so he could get out plenty of aggression through hot sex. What he couldn’t get out that way, he defused by roaming the woods in his wolf shape.
He sat at the steering wheel of his truck, trying to decide. Did he want to go to Babe’s Bar, or did he want to go straight home to run through the woods? It was early enough he could do both—first work off some energy as a wolf, and then hit Babe’s afterward for some drinks followed by mindless fucking.
Brilliant.
After putting his truck in gear, he pulled out of the lot, his mind already wandering to places of alcohol’s numbness and the forgettable arms of a woman he was already planning to never see again.
His phone buzzed with a text, and he glanced at it, already knowing who it was—his twin, Amelia. She’d been on his case lately, telling him it was time to get out of whatever rut he’d been in for the past twenty years and live again. He didn’t like to think about any of that. The last message she’d sent had nearly made him smash his phone.
Something changed when you were a teenager, and you won’t talk to me about it.
The two of them had a special bond—they’d always been too intuitive about the other, even when they were miles apart. Times like now, he hated that bond. Amelia also had an eerie way of knowing things she shouldn’t know.
He pulled over, though, because if he didn’t answer her text now, she’d keep pestering him. He picked up his phone, but it started buzzing with an incoming call. Amelia had never been patient.
Aw, hell. It wasn’t Amelia—it was Gabriel Fournier. Brother to the very reason Rourke had been unhappy for almost twenty years. He ignored the call—Gabriel could leave a message if he was that desperate to talk.
The buzzing of the incoming call stopped, and Rourke sighed with relief. He pulled up his message app to text back Amelia, but the damn phone started buzzing again—not because Gabriel had left a message, but because he’d dialed again.
Must be important. If the Fourniers needed help, of course Rourke would be there. They went back too far. He tapped the answer button. “Hey.”
Gabriel was quiet for a second, and Rourke started to wonder if maybe Gabriel had accidentally called, butt-dialed him, or whatever.
Then Gabriel spoke. “She’s alive, Rourke.”
The phone slipped out of Rourke’s hand, and he scrambled to catch it. “What are you talking about?” he whispered.
“Starla,” Gabriel said. “She’s here. She’s home. Long story, but she was kidnapped and then adopted by another family. We recently found out.”
Rourke tried to process the information. Starla, alive. Her body was never found, but they had known she was dead. Too much of her blood, all over the forest. “She wasn’t killed?”
“No. It was an elaborate set-up so we wouldn’t search for her. Shifter adoptions apparently bring in huge money.”
Gabriel kept talking, but the words were a blur, a mumbling sound like Rourke was listening from the bottom of a lake. Rourke struggled to come to the surface.
“Why didn’t she come back before?”
“She thought she’d killed her family—a part of the set-up. We had to believe she was dead, and she had to believe we were dead in order for it to work.”
Rourke thought about that. It all made sense, except for one thing—Starla would have gotten in touch with him, at least. Even if she thought her family was dead, she wouldn’t have left Rourke. Hurt washed over him, followed by anger. He clenched the phone tight, until he heard the plastic casing snap.
If she’d believed her family dead, why hadn’t she insisted on coming to his family? The Pacific Coast Pack would have welcomed her. At the very least, she should have contacted him. A letter. She’d been so good at writing letters. He’d lived for the moment the mail carrier arrived every day.
Gabriel was still talking. “So you’ll come? Tomorrow night?”
“What?”
“She’s not going to be visiting for long, but we want to throw her this party, and we know she’d love to see you. Hell, we’d all love to see you. It’s been too long, man.”
About fifteen years. Rourke’s family had gone down to visit the Fourniers once after Starla’s disappearance. Nothing had been the same. Mr. and Mrs. Fournier had been getting ready for some pride war nobody wanted to discuss. The siblings had been confused or angry, and Starla—Starla wasn’t there. Rourke had vowed, afterward, to never visit the Sierra Pride territory again.
“I don’t think I can make it,” he said. The wolf inside him how
led and whined, every instinct telling him this was the wrong answer.
“That’s too bad,” Gabriel said. “I know it’s short notice, though. Well, if you find you’re able to, you’re always welcome. You know where we are.”
“Thanks, but it’s impossible.” The words were true—it was impossible—but they were also untrue, and Rourke’s wolf was furious.
Gabriel was quiet. Finally he said, “Sure. I’ll tell her you said hey.”
“Thanks, man.”
They hung up. Rourke stared down at his phone, breathing heavily. What the hell was going on? Why did he feel like the planet had turned upside down? Why did he feel like he was floating out into space?
The wolf inside of him growled, but Rourke shook his head. He’d been in control for two days as a firefighter—the wolf could wait a little longer.
Remembering Amelia’s text, he pulled up the app to view it.
Brother, take a risk. When was the last time you were happy? Go.
Chapter Three
Starla wished she was a kitten again, and could cuddle into her adoptive mother.
“You’re going to be fine, dear,” her mom said, clasping Starla’s hand. “Your family—your family here, and your family in Florida—we all love you so much.”
Starla accepted her kiss on the forehead, then watched her mom get into their rental car.
It was the opposite of when Starla had come to them. Starla had clung to the hands of Mr. Gunser and Lynn, the beautiful blond woman who smelled funny. Lynn had been a friend, before the accident, so Starla knew she could trust her.
A man and a woman had been standing out in front of a small house in a suburban neighborhood. The woman had rushed forward. She smelled like lion, as Starla’s mom had smelled, and Starla’s eyes had filled with tears.
“Oh, honey,” the woman had said, pulling her into an embrace. “I’m Cynthia. But Starla, honey, if you ever want, if you’re ever ready, I want you to feel free to call me Mom.”
“I’ve done a terrible thing,” eleven-year-old Starla had stuttered into Cynthia’s chest.
