Rejected Mate: An Enemies-to-Lovers Shifter Romance (Feral Shifters Book 1)

by Callie Rose

  “No.”

  He nods, as if he expected that response. “Our alpha has tasked us with bringing the shadow realm to earth.”

  The shadow realm.

  Something about the name makes fear spike in my heart. The only types of shadows I know, beyond literal shadows and the living creature Frost killed last night, are magical. The witches back in Montana… their magic was black and smoky, like shadows leaking from their fingertips. The idea of a shadow realm, where magic like that might exist unfettered, or where more living shadows exist that would try to kill me…

  I shudder.

  I’m ready to fire off more questions, to ask what the shadow realm has to do with the three of them, but I don’t get a chance.

  “Enough chatting,” Kian snarls, then grabs my elbow and shoves me ahead of him.

  Fury bursts to life like a flame inside me. I flip my arm around to break his hold, then slam my forearm against his to knock his hand away. Then I follow up with a punch to his face.

  My knuckles crack, and pain lances up my arm like I’ve slammed my fist into a brick wall. But it’s worth it when he grunts and leans forward, blood spurting from his nose.

  “Do not ever touch me again,” I bite out, giving my aching knuckles a shake.

  Malix makes a noise in his throat. “I told you kitty’s got claws, brother. You didn’t listen.”

  I hold up my fist in his direction. “Call me kitty again and you’re next.”

  Kian straightens, glaring daggers at me over a thin trickle of blood that seeps from his nose. A small, insane part of me wishes I could step forward, tiptoe against his hard chest, and lick that blood off him. The idea makes me hot from head to toe, and I struggle to keep my thoughts and pheromones to myself.

  A moment of tension hangs in the air, so thick it’s hard to breathe. Then Kian breaks it, turning to stalk away into the trees.

  Toward a grouping of motorcycles.

  Three of them.

  “You got a new bike?” I say with a mock pout, thankful for something to distract me from my tumultuous thoughts. “But that takes all the fun out of my present. I fucked up your Harley just for you.”

  Malix laughs, and Frost punches him in the arm.

  Kian kicks up the stand on a newer-looking Honda and hitches his leg over the black bench seat. His gold-ringed gaze latches on to me as he slides forward, opening up a space behind him. “Get on.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “You have to be kidding. I’m not riding with you halfway across the fucking state.”

  “No, you’re not,” he grinds out. “We’re going to go get your bike, as long as you don’t force me to kill you first.”

  God help me. Between the sight of the blood on his upper lip, the venom in his tone, and the threat of bodily harm, I’m more turned on than I have any damn right to be. If I get on that bike with him, he’s going to know it. If I don’t get on that bike with him, he’ll have won.

  Son of a bitch.

  Kian stares at me in silence as I march to his bike. I throw my leg over the seat and sit, careful to keep several inches of space between us.

  But Kian grabs both my knees and hauls me forward.

  I slam against his back, my legs widening even more around his hips. I can’t help the little gasp that comes from me, though I don’t know if it’s from the contact or from my lungs slamming against his hard muscles.

  “That was unnecessary,” I snap.

  “Sitting like that will throw off my balance,” he returns, then revs the engine, cutting off any further conversation.

  I swear to God, I can’t wait to kill this man. I’ll do it with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

  After retrieving my bike from the bramble bush where I left it, we stop by the motel for my things and then leave civilization behind for the barren desert.

  The good thing about riding bikes is that we aren’t forced to communicate. The bad thing about riding bikes is there are no distractions from my own mind. On my Ducati with the wind rushing in my ears and the engine thrumming between my legs, I’m left alone with my thoughts.

  And I have a lot of them.

  After years of aimless drifting, chasing half-empty leads and just simply existing day to day, I’ve now found myself in the midst of more than I ever bargained for. The plan was always to find my mates, then kill them. End of story. Now, I’ve been poisoned and am two weeks from death. I’ve thrown my lot in with three men I desire more than I’ve ever wanted anything—also, three men I plan to annihilate. And I’m stuck with them for the foreseeable future as we track down a witch for an antidote. All the while fighting this unrelenting need for them.

  I feel like I rode my bike into the twilight zone... and right off the goddamn planet.

  With hours of free time to think, I study each of the men while we ride. Kian has taken the lead, while Malix cruises beside me, and Frost brings up the rear. It should be surprising that they’re all motorcycle enthusiasts like me, but in the grand scheme of things, if they are my mates, then I guess it makes sense.

  I can see tension in Kian’s shoulders ahead of me, and it never fades, not even after an hour, two hours, three hours. I wonder what he’s thinking—if he’s wishing he never walked into Joe’s Bar and Grill last night. That one decision changed everything, not just for me, but for them, as well. If we hadn’t had our run in, Frost probably wouldn’t have shown up in my room for whatever reason he chose to do so, and neither of us would have been poisoned.

  I can’t quite believe I’ve formed a truce with the men I’ve sworn to kill. Everything is upside down and backward.

  I feel them. Even as we’re on separate bikes with several yards between us, I feel them. This deep, undeniable pull, a metaphysical thread that connects me to all three of them. They’re mine—there’s not a doubt in my mind of that. But no matter what happens, I have to pretend they aren’t.

  The fate of the world depends on it.

  As the sun’s dipping into the horizon, Kian leaves the highway and zooms across open desert. The heat of the day is fading, and crickets have set up a chorus in the growing twilight. It’s peaceful, if a little bumpy, as we leave behind the road for the wilderness.

  A little more than two miles off the highway, Kian slows and comes to a halt, then kills his engine.

  I pull up behind him and do the same. “We’re stopping?”

  He nods. “I’d prefer to approach the witch well-rested.”

  A surprisingly logical response. He warned me back at the cabin that the witch was “very powerful,” so arriving on his doorstep exhausted would benefit nobody.

  I fight the urge to groan as I peel my tired ass off the seat, then do a few stretches to work out the kinks. Malix and Frost park their bikes next to Kian’s and dismount.

  “Food?” Malix says.

  Kian grunts. “Yeah. We can hunt out here, then rest up for the night.”

  I toss my backpack onto the ground next to my bike. “A hunt sounds great.”

  Malix and Kian exchange glances, and Kian says, “You can stay here.”

  “I could,” I say, “but I’m going with you anyway.”

  I busted my ass for three years to get into this position. And yeah, it’s not exactly what I wanted, but it’s the closest I’ve come to completing my goal. I’m not letting any of them out of my sight.

  Plus, the idea of stretching my legs after so long on my bike sounds marvelous.

  I strip off my tank top and unbutton my jeans to shimmy them off my hips. I never mince moments when I’m undressing to shift, because the moment I’ve made the choice to do it, I’m raring to go.

  But as I step out of my blue jeans, I realize all three men are standing still, watching me.

  Nudity is a fact of life in shifter culture. I could walk around pack lands in the buff without blinking an eye, surrounded by dozens of other naked friends.

  This is different.

  I might have spent a night with Kian years ago, but he’s sti
ll a stranger. They all are. Their gazes on me feel equally uncomfortable and erotic. They’re all three gorgeous enough that I’m sure they’ve had their fair share of naked women in their beds, so I know I’m not an anomaly. But their gazes feel hungry and… admiring.

  I shift quickly, covering my nudity with my fur and pacing away from them. Although there’s a little voice inside me telling me to turn around for a peek, I keep my eyes firmly on the nighttime horizon while they undress behind me.

  Kian walks up and glances my way. In the woods outside Oscura, I’d been too dead set on murdering him to really appreciate his wolf. It’s a magnificent creature. Massive, more than a head taller than me with muscles like an ox. His thick fur is the same color as his hair, a kind of dark espresso with hints of tan around his muzzle and ears.

  Those beautiful brown, gold-ringed eyes are exactly the same.

  Don’t get in my way, he rumbles in mind-speak.

  Don’t get in my way, I retort, flicking my tail irritably.

  Frost appears on the other side of him, padding up to join us on silent paws. His wolf is pure white from head to tail, and fluffy, like he should be prancing about the snow in the arctic rather than running around the desert. He’s smaller than Kian, closer to my size, and his blue eyes stand out like beacons against his fur.

  Frost’s voice echoes in my head. Perhaps we could work together?

  Malix bounds up beside me. Always the voice of reason, Iceman.

  Malix is a stunning mix of salt-and-pepper, so that he looks like a galaxy of stars when the wind ruffles his fur. He catches my gaze with those sparkling violet eyes and his jaw hinges open, tongue lolling out in a doggy grin. I just know he’s giving me that Cheshire Cat smile.

  Kian takes off without further comment, and the rest of us follow.

  We race into the desert, and I’m already calculating how the hunt will go. It won’t be like back home—there are no trees to hide us, and very little brush that isn’t half-dead or too scrubby to be a hiding place. Animals out here will either be in plain sight or hiding underground, so we’ll have to rely on our noses to find them and on our speed being faster.

  I put my nose to the ground and start tracking.

  For several moments, we pace circles on the ground, each of us searching for any hint of prey that’s recently moved through the area. Frost finds the first scent trail, and we converge on him, racing after him as he follows his nose.

  My heart hammers from the rush of adrenaline, and for the first time in a long time, I feel free. Kian barks orders in mind-speak as we spread out around a prairie dog burrow. Then we ease in, closing a circle around the visible hole. Frost starts digging, and the prairie dogs start running, and the chase is on.

  I lunge after one of the five dogs, while Kian, Malix, and Frost do the same. My paws pounding in the dust, my muscles working as I close in, and the excitement of the hunt, all of it reminds me of home. I’m nostalgic for the old days. Hunting with my pack. Feeling a part of something that’s akin to family and community.

  Too bad for prairie dogs, they’re slow, fat little things.

  I snatch one off the ground by its neck, giving a quick, vicious squeeze of my jaw to break it. I’m not squeamish about feeding myself, but I do my best to make sure they don’t suffer fear or pain for too terribly long. The one thing that separates a wolf shifter from the beasts is our sense of empathy.

  For most of us, anyway.

  I’m somehow certain empathy isn’t something the feral shifters worry too much about.

  The four of us converge back on our makeshift campsite with our kills, and start to eat. I’m still harboring those emotions over my old pack, and as I bite into skin and tendon, I glance around at the other wolves as they feast.

  For the briefest moment, I was happy. But now, that feeling fades as I remember these wolves aren’t my family. They aren’t my pack. They aren’t even friends.

  They’re my enemies.

  I’d do well to remember that.

  Chapter 11

  Ridge slaps his cards to the table with a triumphant grin. “Royal flush.”

  We’re on his back patio sitting in mismatched plastic chairs, a pile of crumpled twenties in the center of the table and a cooler between us. It’s Montana summer—lush, green, hotter than a Sunday in hell. I’ve got my bare feet propped up on the cooler, which is a few degrees cooler than the lava in the concrete. The kitchen window is open behind me, and I can hear Sable cooing at the baby and talking to Trystan as they start dinner together.

  I stare at Ridge’s winning hand fanned out atop the glass tabletop, then at my own, still in my fingers. Raising an eyebrow, I wrinkle my nose at him. “You’re cheating.”

  His honey-colored eyes dance with laughter as he reaches out and pulls down the top of my cards for a peek. One pair. Two tens and a bunch of other shit cards. Maybe the worst hand I’ve ever held against one of his rare winning hands.

  Ridge sucks air between his teeth and chuckles, releasing my cards as he leans back in his chair.

  “Bad luck, Mo,” he teases, picking up his bottle. “I’m taking you to the cleaners for all the times you lined your pockets with my money.”

  “My luck must be on vacation,” I grumble, tossing the cards onto the table. A sense of déjà vu washes over me, but I ignore it and pick up my beer, only to find it’s empty. Add that to the bout of bad luck—I was so irritated over my shit hand that I don’t even remember drinking it.

  “Luck,” Ridge repeats.

  I set my bottle down and reach for the cooler lid to grab another as I joke, “Yeah. Luck. You have it, I don’t.”

  “Your luck’s at the end of the world,” Ridge says, his voice going… strange.

  Startled by the sudden change in his tone, I abandon my reach for the cooler and glance up at him

  His familiar, casual slouch is gone. He’s ramrod straight, his knuckles pale on the bottle, and his eyes are black. Not even a hint of white sclera, none of his amber irises.

  A void.

  The sky is darkening too. Heavy black smoke rolls overhead, blocking out the bright sun and the feathered white clouds. A cold breeze kicks up around us, whipping my long hair into my eyes. The cooler tips over and beer bottles scatter across the raised pavement, followed by ice cubes that begin to melt the moment they touch the ground.

  Something shatters, and I return my gaze to Ridge.

  Only he’s gone.

  His beer bottle is in pieces on the ground beneath his chair, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  My heart pounds wildly. I shove my seat back and stand, looking around the yard. “Ridge?”

  Suddenly, the scenery changes.

  The cooler remains on its side, spilling brown bottles and puddles of melted ice, but the ground beneath it is hard and dry. The grass is gone, replaced by dead shrubs and tumbleweeds like the New Mexico desert.

  I walk away from the table, from Ridge’s shattered beer bottle. The grass crackles and crumbles beneath my boots. The fence Ridge built with his own hands has vanished, though several boards remain, sticking up from the ground like broken, jagged teeth.

  Whirling around, I find the cabins in total disrepair. Ridge’s roof has sunk into the living room, while my house down the road looks like an atomic blast wiped out the entire back wall.

  “Sable,” I breathe.

  I race to the back door of Ridge’s cabin and shove it open, barreling into the kitchen. The roof is intact here, but the place has clearly been abandoned for a long time. A highchair lies in pieces on the floor, and ivy has grown through the open window, taking over the cabinets, cracking them open like eggs. Dishes lie in pieces on the countertops and the floor, everything covered in inches of dust.

  I stare at the highchair. Something deep in my mind, a lucid part, reminds me that I never met the baby. Sable was pregnant when I left home. But my fear drowns out that small common sense voice, and I sprint back outside.

  I leave Ridge’s yard, moving fa
ster now. There’s no sign of my pack. The village is destroyed, overgrown by time and nature. Bones lay on the dead, cracked dirt, bleached white and picked clean by god knows what.

  And still the black smoke hangs overhead, blocking out the sun.

  I race into the plains where a forest used to be, screaming Ridge’s name. What about Sable? The baby? Trystan, Archer, Dare? Grady, the elders? The wind roars, empty of anything but its own voice.

  I whirl around, gripped by relentless terror and heartache.

  But I’m not in pack lands anymore.

  Desert and ruin surrounds me. On the horizon, the dark, half-falling spires of skyscrapers touch the black sky, and flashes of light emit from downed power lines nearby. People run screaming, kicking up dust from the dying earth, clutching their belongings. Everybody crying, everybody terrified.

  Including me.

  I fight against the fleeing crowd, drawn back toward the broken city. Several people run into me in their haste, but I barrel forward, undeterred. Then the crowd parts and dead bodies stretch as far as I can see.

  Roaming between the bodies are hundreds of black, smoky creatures. They’re monstrous, larger than any animal I’ve ever seen, with featureless, formless bodies. I stare, trying to make sense of them, but it’s like watching shadows drift across a dark horizon and trying to form shapes from them in my head.

  They’re twisted.

  Wrong.

  A few stragglers race toward me, and the shadows give chase, bounding across the ground with preternatural speed. I watch in horror as one creature takes down a mother holding her toddler. Her scream cuts off abruptly, and her baby cries.

  Then I’m flying backward. The ground moves away from me, and the big picture becomes clearer. I keep going, further and further, until I can see the whole country, the whole continent, then the earth itself.

  Everything has been taken.

  Conquered.

  Decimated.

  I close my eyes and try to scream, but nothing comes out. When I open them again, I’m back in Ridge’s backyard.