KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      I was recently asked who I feel has helped me most in my career. Of course, I immediately thought of my amazing agent, Jessica Faust of BookEnds, LLC, and my editor, Audrey LaFehr, who chose Wolf Tales for the beginning of Kensington’s Aphrodisia line and continues to give me such wonderful freedom to write my stories. And of course, there’s my husband, an absolutely fantastic guy who has always supported my writing career—literally—even when I wasn’t selling diddly-squat.

      Then I thought of the ones who have been there from the beginning, when dreams of publishing were just that—dreams. My very first critique partner, author Kathryn North, who patiently explained to me what passive voice and point of view meant, and author Patricia Lucas White, who taught me the concept of paying it forward long before it was a catchphrase. Angela Knight, an angel in the publishing community who writes kick-ass heroines and shares her expertise on how she does it with the world. There’s Stephanie Burke, an author with a most amazing imagination who taught me that anything is possible in the world of the paranormal, and Treva Harte and Shelby Morgen who helped me develop a very thick skin when it came to critiques! There are so many others I can’t name them all, but I have never found more generous souls than those in the writing community. I feel blessed to count myself among their number, and I will be the first to admit I didn’t get here on my own.

      Acknowledgments

      My very special thanks to the amazing women who are willing to take time from their own very busy schedules to read my stories, tell me where I blew it, and do their best to make me better. Karen Woods, Dakota Cassidy, Ann Jacobs, Camille Anthony, Devyn Quinn, and Sheri Fogarty—all of you talented and smart and so much fun. I am honored to have you as friends, and even more honored you are so generous with your time, your expertise, and your thoughtful comments and observations. The best thing of all? You are utterly unshockable! With this series, that’s a definite plus.

      I also wish to thank an amazingly talented group of men, the writers who contribute to The Sticky Pen website at www.stickypen.com. The stories you so generously share help me bring my characters to life.

      Chapter 1

      “You bitch! You’re nothing but a cock-teasing bitch.”

      Eve Reynolds twisted to one side and tried to duck, but the big guy kicked the motel room door shut with his foot and slammed her against the bedroom wall. His buddy stood to one side, watching with a salacious smirk on his face.

      She aimed a kick in his direction. The smaller guy jumped out of the way before she could connect. Eve twisted in the bigger man’s grasp, felt her T-shirt stretch, heard it tear. The shredded top drooped to her waist, a meaty hand surrounded her exposed breast, thick fingers dug into soft flesh. It hurt, damn it, but not as much as when he shoved his thigh between her legs, lifting her feet off the ground while he groped her other breast.

      She twisted, but couldn’t break free. He was taller and stronger and totally enraged. Adrenaline poured into her system. Eve’s vision blurred and she fought the need to shift. It would be so easy—so utterly satisfying. Just be the wolf long enough to take them out, both of them—the big guy assaulting her and his smarmy buddy, too. She could change in a heartbeat, all slavering teeth and powerful jaws tearing into her attackers. Eve pictured the blood and the rewarding burst of terror. She felt the first frisson of change course through her body.

      The man’s thigh ground against her sensitive pubes. She tensed, preparing for the wolf. Then Anton Cheval’s words of warning leapt into her mind. The leader of the Montana pack had been deadly serious and his warning was branded in her mind.

      Our identity as Chanku is a closely guarded secret. Take care no one learns what you are.

      These men would know, if she let them live. Eve wasn’t ready to kill a man, much less two, which she’d have to do if she shifted. Leaving witnesses wasn’t acceptable, damn it all, but she really hated to do the girlie thing. Then a hand snaked down the front of her shorts and rough fingers scraped at tender flesh, forcing entrance. She screamed, loud and long, her voice powered by anger, not fear. Then she bit into the man’s thick bicep, the only body part within reach of her teeth. Her human jaws lacked wolven strength and sharpness, but the combination of scream and bite, of nearby doors opening and people yelling, was enough to stop the attack.

      The big guy shoved her to the floor, yelled for his buddy, and the two of them raced out the door and climbed into their truck. The shiny red Chevy 4x4 fishtailed out of the parking lot, spewing gravel and dust in its wake. Light from the garish streetlamps turned the dust to gold and the gravel twinkled like precious gems. A perfect example of things not always being as they seemed.

      Eve held on to the doorjamb and gasped for air as she watched them leave. Neighbors on either side of her ground-floor room spilled out into the night. She clutched her torn shirt across her breasts, waved off their concern, and apologized for the disturbance. Then she closed the door to her motel room and leaned her head against the warm wood.

      Heat and moisture engulfed her. Heart pounding, breath still rasping in her lungs, she concentrated on the thick, humid air and the silence, now that the truck was gone.

      And the fact she’d managed not to shift.

      Eve rubbed her left arm, well aware she’d have the jerk’s fingerprints imprinted in her flesh for the next few days. Her crotch hurt where he’d shoved her with his thigh and violated her with his filthy fingers. Both her breasts were bruised.

      Moving on unsteady feet, Eve limped into the bathroom. She glanced only briefly in the mirror before looking away. She didn’t need to see the tangled blond hair or the bruise along her left cheek to know she looked like a wild-eyed tramp. Hands shaking, head pounding with the onset of a headache, she stripped out of her clothes, stepped into the shower and turned on the water. All she got was a tepid spray, but it was enough to wash the man’s stink off her bruised body.

      Eve let her mind go blank as water sluiced over her head and shoulders. When she finally got out and dried off, though, her head still ached. She grabbed a washcloth, rinsed it out, held the damp cloth to her forehead…and thought of Montana.

      Clear skies and dark, cool forests. Trails leading into