Captivated By The She-Wolf. Kristal Hollis
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finally starting to feel settled and relaxed. Time did eventually heal even the deepest wounds. She had expected last week’s full moon to be a difficult night, since it fell on the anniversary of her claiming—the night Zeke had bitten her during a sexual encounter and marked her as his life-mate.
His death had been the catalyst in expediting Ronni and their son Alex’s relocation to Walker’s Run, saving them from the deadly uprising within her birth pack. The tug-of-war between the grief of losing her beloved mate and the downright thankfulness for a new and better life was a battle she fought daily.
Since the encounter with the unusual raven a few nights ago, Ronni had found the struggle a little easier to bear. Every night since, he perched in a tree outside her house and watched over her as she sat on the back porch swing. Ravens were infamous thieves, so maybe he was stealing her troubles away, one night at a time.
Whatever his reason for visiting, she now looked forward to his company. Preferred it, actually, to the males who figured her mourning period was over and that she was back on the market. Most of them would make fine mates for some other she-wolf. Having been loved and loved hard, she wouldn’t be content with anything less and she simply hadn’t connected that strongly to any potential suitor. Except the raven.
She laughed at the absurdity.
The delicate chime of bells jingled from the front of the store.
“That you, Elliott?” Ronni rolled her chair away from the sewing table and stood, arching her back and stretching her arms above her head. The bunched muscles relaxed.
“Yep.” Without fail, postal employee and fellow packmate Elliott Dubois delivered Ronni’s mail at ten fifty-five every morning.
She walked into the front where slanted teak shelves were loaded with bolts of every imaginable color of fabric. More for show than actual use, the rainbow effect reminded her that this store, this pack, this life was her pot of gold.
“You have to sign for this one.” In his late fifties, Elliott had dark springy hair clipped close to his head, smooth brown skin, sepia-colored eyes teeming with intelligence and a tightly trimmed beard framing a generous mouth that usually dazzled her with a flash of straight white teeth. Today, Elliott clenched his jaw hard enough to flatten his lips until they whitened around the edges.
“Well, it can’t be an eviction letter.” The Co-op owned her building and she paid a portion of her profits to the Co-op, as all members did.
Ronni stepped behind the sales counter and picked up a pen from the cup beside the register.
“It’s from the Woelfesenat.” He handed her an overnight, certified letter.
Ronni’s heart stopped. As did time itself.
The air inside The Stitchery stilled. Neither she nor Elliott breathed. The ticking of the pendulum clock on the wall behind her ceased to tock in her ears.
Although all Wahyan packs were independently governed by their respective Alphas, the Woelfesenat was the international wolf council that ensured their species continued to live peaceably among the unsuspecting human populace. They held the ultimate ruling power over all wolf shifters, world-wide. A communique from them was either really good news or it wasn’t. There was no middle ground with them.
Since Ronni preferred to stay off their radar, she doubted they were awarding her a commendation.
Nervously, she signed for the document.
“Maybe it’s not too serious.” Elliott offered her a hopeful smile.
“Probably paperwork involving my mate’s death,” she said, even though Zeke had died over a year ago. “It all happened so fast, Alex and I just packed up and left.”
“I’m sure that’s all it is.” Relief eased Elliott’s worry. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ronni kept her smile in place until Elliott walked out of The Stitchery and across the street. Hands shaking, she tore into the letter.
It wasn’t about her deceased husband, Ezekiel. It was about his brutal older brother, Jebediah.
Ronni’s heart dropped into her stomach with such velocity it could have passed right through her pelvis to make a crater on the concrete floor.
Jeb wasn’t dead like everyone had believed. And despite the many prayers and supplications Ronni had made to never lay eyes on that man again, the Woelfesenat was officially informing her that Jeb had petitioned for the assertion of his blood-kin rights and would be contacting her shortly regarding visitation with her son, Alexander.
The letter slipped from her fingers. Her knees gave out. She sank to the floor. Her heart climbed back into her chest and beat in a furious attempt to make up for lost time. A sudden deluge of adrenaline made her head spin. Her breaths grew short from the tightening of her chest and the closing of her throat. Even her nose seemed unable to draw in air.
As her mate’s brother, Jeb had a stronger blood-kin relation to Alex than Rafe Wyatt, Ronni’s distant cousin, who had given them refuge after Zeke’s death, providing a home and helping to establish them in the Walker’s Run pack.
Zeke had risked his life to protect her from Jeb, who had begun obsessively stalking her with a mind to forcibly claim her if she resisted. And later, in hopes of giving his family a better life, Zeke had been coordinating with Rafe on their transference to Walker’s Run when he was killed by rebel packmates.
If allowed to go unchecked, Jeb would undo everything Zeke had sacrificed to give them.
Under no circumstance would Ronni allow that to happen. Taking a calming breath, she forced down her panic.
The clock on the wall behind her chimed and she jumped.
Irritated with herself, Ronni stood and shook off her momentary weakness and flattened her hands on the counter. She couldn’t stop Jeb from coming to get them, but she would make damn certain he left Walker’s Run empty-handed.
* * *
“Who are you again?” Mary Jane McAllister, an elderly woman with short, gray curly hair and wearing overalls, squinted at Bodie from behind her screen door.
“Sergeant Gryffon.” The wooden porch squeaked as he shifted his weight. He’d been interviewing tight-lipped Co-op residents all morning about the gunshots he’d heard inside the wolf sanctuary last night. “I’m with Georgia DNR.”
“What’s that?”
“Department of Natural Resources,” he answered, for the third time. Noting the hearing aids in her ears, he swallowed his impatience.
Again, she inspected him head to toe. “Are you a game warden or something?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Though as a DNR conservation ranger in the law enforcement division, Bodie had the same investigative and arrest powers entrusted to all local, state or federal law enforcement officers.
“Well, whatcha doin’ here?” She crossed her arms over her full chest.
That was a loaded question.
In recent years, there had been a number of fatal wild boar attacks in and around Maico. DNR’s growing concern with the feral hog situation was, in part, responsible for Bodie’s reassignment here. And since his arrival, he had combed the entire area, on foot or in the air. And there wasn’t a single boar to be found, wild or otherwise.
There were, however, wolf shifters who in all likelihood did not take kindly to trespassers or interlopers.
“A witness reported shots were fired inside the Walker’s Run wolf sanctuary last night.” Bodie didn’t elaborate that he’d been the one to hear the shotgun blasts while perched in a tree at the she-wolf’s house.
After following her home from the sanctuary a few nights ago, he couldn’t seem to stay away, returning nightly to watch over her as she sat on the back porch swing. During the day, wherever his job led, he searched the faces of every