by Zoe Chant
The big boar charged, and West’s wolf leaped to the attack. A tangle of pelts and animal legs, fierce growls and mud flew. Then suddenly the big boar was down, the wolf’s jaws at its neck. The blur of a shift, and the boar became a huge, bulky man: Tom Olsen.
The wolf also shifted, and West stood up, half a head shorter and a lot lighter.
“Get ‘em, boys,” Tom ordered as he sprang up and advanced menacingly on West.
The teens moved forward, arms swinging in wild, untrained punches. West moved among them in a few smooth steps and sent them all flying into the mud, howling various versions of “Ow!” “Hey!”
Then he turned back to Tom Olsen. If the bigger man had thought that shifting back to human would give him an advantage, three moves later he lay stretched full length in the mud, buck naked, as an equally-naked West held him down one-handed by the throat, a knee squarely on his chest. Olsen senior’s hands clawed ineffectually at West’s wrist, but nothing was dislodging that steely grip.
The small boar retreated from the coyote and shifted to a teenage boy, who scrambled backward, clutching an elbow and yelling in pain and outrage. A moment later another blurred shift resolved into Rolf, who launched himself at his dad, clinging and shivering.
“It was just a little horseplay—” Tom Olsen began.
West’s low, growly voice cut through. “What,” he said, “have you just learned?”
Tom made a sudden move, trying to throw West, but West held him flat in the mud. His voice became distinct, soft with threat. “What have you just learned?”
As the teenage gang slowly got to their feet, keeping a wary distance behind Jeff Olsen, Tom Olsen said, “Fuck you, tough guy. What do you want me to say, you’re stronger?”
“No. That doesn’t mean squat,” West said. “Then you didn’t learn anything. Rolf? Can you help this man out here, tell him what matters?”
Everybody was silent, except for the hissing rain.
Rolf’s quavering voice gained strength as he said, “My pack. I have a pack. They came for me.”
“I’ve got my pack,” Jeff began belligerently. “Right here.”
“No you don’t,” West said. “A pack backs each other up. A pack is loyal, not afraid. There’s a difference. A pack keeps each other safe from harm. It doesn’t threaten everyone else with harm. A gang is bound together by fear, its only goal anger and destruction. What you’ve got here is just a gang.”
“Like father, like son,” Uncle Lee said, his voice thick with loathing. “A two-bit punk raising another bullying two-bit punk. Sometimes I wonder what Sam, over there in Iraq, facing real enemies, would think of the bullshit he left behind.”
“Fuck you, Lee Enkel. Let me up, asshole,” Tom Olsen said, but everyone could hear the plea under the bluster, McKenzi thought.
She saw the truth of it in the way the teens behind shifted uneasily, then West lifted his hand, rose, and stepped back. In silence those who had clothes there pulled on their wet things. Rolf just stood there next to his dad. The Olsens and their gang had obviously forced him to shift somewhere else.
So West put his leather coat around Rolf, and together the five of them started back, the others staying behind, low voices punctuated by a lot of cussing. McKenzi guessed that Tom Olsen was doing his best to reestablish his authority. Good luck with that, she thought.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Rolf began crying in a choked voice, but he got hold of himself again by the time they reached the football field. He headed toward one of the goal posts, where he picked up his muddy clothes. “They made me shift,” he said. “Said, you think you’re so badass, wolf, and let’s see how good you run. And shit like that. Jeff was supposed to hunt me down. Beat me up, or . . . I don’t know.” Another sob. He wiped his nose on his ruined shirt.
“How’d they get you out there?”
“I guess they were watching me. Waited until I had to go to the can. Then suddenly there they were. They wouldn’t let me go back to the dance.”
“I’ll be talking to the principal tomorrow,” Uncle Lee said.
“Dad, you can’t. It’ll just make things bad for me at school,” Rolf said. “West! Tell him he can’t!”
“Rolf, that’s for you and your dad to work out. What I want you to know is that Nate and I both felt you in danger through the pack sense. You don’t have to be afraid. You’ve got backup, so maybe you could consider letting the authorities show Jeff that there are consequences to his actions.”
The coyote pacing them uttered a small yip.
Uncle Lee said, “Rolf, you said it yourself. Your pack is behind you. What I want you to consider is what a responsibility that is, son.”
Rolf was silent as they crossed the school to the parking lot, which was mostly empty. Rolf looked around anxiously.
McKenzi said, “LaShawna’s mom took her home. She said to tell you to text her.”
“They stomped on my phone when I tried to text you, dad,” Rolf muttered as he slid the leather coat off. He handed it to West, and struggled into his pants.
Uncle Lee sighed, and nobody spoke as they climbed into the car. Nate took off running. McKenzi figured that he would beat them home, as the roads were slippery and full of water. Sure enough, when they reached home, Nate was waiting on the porch, still in coyote form.
McKenzi parked and everyone got out, but Rolf stopped after three steps. He turned to face them. “West. Nate, you, too. Thanks. I’m sorry about all that.”
“We can talk it all through later. Get some rest,” West suggested.
“Come on, son,” Uncle Lee said, and to the others. “Thanks.”
Nate turned his head from one to the other. “Good job, Nate,” West said.
The coyote yipped again, then took off downhill toward Main Street, probably to get his clothes, McKenzi thought.
West’s cold hand gripped hers as they retreated to the cottage. He walked with his head bent, his expression thoughtful.
West is so badass, McKenzi thought. And he doesn’t even know it.
No, that wasn’t it. Being badass wasn’t important to him. And in his head, he was still the orphan wolf on a long, lonely quest.
They walked through the door, neither speaking until they got cleaned up, and climbed into bed. Then she said, “You’ve been really quiet.”
His arm slid around her. “I was thinking. All my life I’ve been looking for my pack. But ever since I heard your voice and those thousand reasons why Valentine’s Day sucks, that search became less important. I kept wondering why everything seemed so off-balance, and meanwhile here you were, so wonderful, and then Rolf happened, and then Nate came back, and he’s trying so hard to make a home, and then Lee did what he did . . . and now I’m sure of it. We really are a pack. It might not be a pack as others define it, but it’s a pack just the same. I have found my pack. I just didn’t know it for certain until tonight.”
He turned his head and gazed searchingly into her eyes. “I found my pack, and I found my mate.”
Mate.
Inside McKenzi, her cat began to purr. She gazed back at him.
“Mates.” She tested the word. Like the toxic pink apron, it had sneakily taken on a completely different meaning. “Wow. Here I’ve been trying to define what you are to me—what we are to each other—and the right word was there all along. But I couldn’t see it. I thought I knew what mates were, and they weren’t for me. But I love you, and I want you, and nothing makes me happier than seeing you here every day, and thinking about you being here tomorrow—next week—next year. The rest of my life. Does that make any sense?”
He kissed her.
She kissed him back, then said, “Is that a yes kiss?”
He kissed her again. “It’s a ‘we’re going to have a whole lot of fun redefining everything to fit us’ kiss. And also a ‘starting with, I love you’ kiss.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “This is an ‘I love you’ kiss.”
She took her time, tasting his
mouth with lips, teeth, and tongue, exploring, demanding, teasing and promising. When she had to break for breath she bit his bottom lip and slid her tongue lightly against his.
He grinned, as breathless as she was. Then, in his smokiest voice he growled, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
She laughed. For the first time in her life, it really was one.
She surrendered her lips to his as they got busy celebrating.
* * *
A note from Zoe Chant
Thank you for buying my book! I hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like to be emailed when I release my next book, please click here to be added to my mailing list.
Please click on the title to write a review of A Werewolf’s Valentine. I love hearing what my readers think! It helps me decide what to write next.
Page down to read a special sneak preview of Target: BillionBear, which had in addition to sizzling romance and high-tension action, established Upson Downs, the secret town of shifters!
The cover of A Werewolf’s Valentine was designed by Belle Arden.
More Paranormal Romance by Zoe Chant
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Target: BillionBear
by Zoe Chant
Special Preview
Kesley unloaded her unsold art, then carried the groceries in. She put away hers, and took McKenzi’s down to her cottage, where she found a note on the fridge that the parents had made dinner.
Kesley groaned. She loved her family, but she had been looking forward to huddling in her cabin with chocolate and some romantic movies—because everybody else in the world seemed to be able to do relationships right, except her.
Flash! Her raccoon stirred inside her, and her mind shot back to Main Street and that big, handsome guy with the chiseled cheekbones and hazel eyes, and the wind tousling his dark hair.
“No,” she said out loud. “Wrong one. Try again,” she muttered as she pulled her raincoat back on and began to trudge up the path past her house to the parental ranch house on the hill. “With my luck he’s married to the nosy woman.”
Rain beat at her cold hands and the side of her face as she hopped up the steps. Inside the house, the place smelled like crispy, lemon-sprinkled Wiener Schnitzel, and Spinatknödel—spinach dumplings. And from the oven she caught the heavenly scent of baking topfenstrudel—cream cheese strudel.
She walked into the living room, where McKenzi sat with Uncle Lee, fourteen-year-old Cousin Rolf sprawled on the rug before the fireplace rereading one of his tattered Harry Potters. Kesley’s father Ed sat in his usual spot in the falling-apart easy chair, his nose buried in the newspaper. Great-Aunt Gretel sat in the opposite chair, placidly knitting.
