This isn’t the first time Ruby’s scent has driven me to distraction. That’s her specialty—getting under my skin, making my blood boil in all the wrong-right ways.
She’s been a thorn in my side. At first, she was just another tree-hugging activist until she revealed she was part of the Wolf Preservation Committee with ancestral ties to the Wolfstone land.
I should have known.
Wolves have always complicated my life, from the predator kids who bullied Prescott in elementary school, to the pack that literally blew down Grandfather’s first straw-constructionhouses. Even my ex-fiancée left me for a wolf—“more passionate, less controlling,” she’d said in her break up letter, as if my self-discipline was somehow a character flaw.
Predators have taken what they’ve wanted without consequence or responsibility for generations. Now that prey species are finally thriving, building our own legacies and reclaiming our power, wolves like Ruby want to paintusas the villains.
As if success is something to apologize for.
I refuse to back down just because history’s tide has turned. We earned our place at the top through intelligence and hard work, not teeth and claws.
The fact that Ruby’s educated and intelligent, combined with her newspaper articles, protests, and petitions, makes me respect her—a little.
Prescott wanted to negotiate. Percy suggested we find another location.
But I’ve never been one to back down when I want something. And Wolfstone is prime real estate—too valuable to abandon because some mangy wolves claim it’s their “heritage.”
More than that, Wolfstone represents my vision for the future of Shiftown. It’s not just another development—it’s the cornerstone of my ten-year expansion plan. The integrated commercial district will connect our downtown properties to the lakeside developments, creating a continuous Porkwell presence across the city’s most valuable areas. Father always said, “Own the arteries, not just the organs,” and Wolfstone is the critical artery that completes our network.
I loosen my tie and sit on the edge of the bed, right where her scent is strongest. The memory of our last confrontation bubbles up, unbidden and unwanted.
It was at the town hall meeting last month.
Ruby had been particularly vicious that night, calling our development company “ecological terrorists” and me personally a “corporate parasite.” She’d cornered me afterward in the empty hallway, those amber eyes flashing with righteous fury as she jabbed a finger into my chest.
“You think you can just bulldoze generations of wolf history for your luxury condos, Hamilton?” Her voice had been low, dangerous. “Wolf packs have protected those woods for centuries.”
“Wolf packs,” I’d sneered, “don’t own the land. We bought it legally.”
“Some things can’t be bought,” she’d shot back, stepping closer until I could feel her breath on my face. “Some things are sacred.”
She’d been so close that I could smell her breath and see the rapid pulse at her throat. Something in me had snapped—the culmination of months of frustration, heated arguments, and sleepless nights thinking about her impassioned speeches and flashing eyes.
I’d grabbed her by the neck, my large hand easily encircling her throat. Not squeezing—just holding her there, feeling her pulse jump against my palm.
“You need to learn when to shut your smart mouth,” I growled.
Her eyes had widened, but not with fear.
With challenge.
With heat.
And then I’d kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle or romantic.
It was angry and desperate and hungry—my mouth crashing against hers, my tusks scraping her lips. She’d kissed me back for one stunning, electric moment, her nails shifting into claws and digging into my shoulders.
Then she’d bitten my lower lip.
Hard enough to draw blood.
I’d jerked back, tasting copper, watching as she’d wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, those amber eyes never leaving mine.
“Try that again,” she’d said, voice husky and dangerous, “and I’ll bite something you’ll miss a lot more.”
