Percy’s designs flash behind my closed eyelids. I hate that I can admit they were beautiful. Elegant buildings nestled among the trees, using natural materials, solar panels disguised as artistic elements. Winding paths that follow the natural contours of the land. A thoughtful, sensitive approach to development.
Still a fucking development, though.
I groan and push myself up, pacing to the window again. From here, I can just make out the dark line of Wolfstone forest on thehorizon beyond the edge of town. In its raw state, it’s perfect. Ancient trees reaching for the sky, undergrowth teeming with life, streams rushing over rocks that have lain in the same spots for millennia.
No human—or pig—design could improve on that perfection.
My mind wanders to the Lightning Oak, a massive tree split by lightning decades ago but still thriving, its twin trunks reaching skyward like outstretched arms. When I was seven and devastated after losing both parents in the same winter, Grandmother took me there. “This tree adapted,” she’d said, her gnarled fingers tracing the scorched bark. “It didn’t let destruction define it. Neither will you.” I’d curled up in the hollow between the split trunks, feeling the ancient heartbeat of the wood against my back, and found my center again.
That’s the spot Percy’s main lodge would replace—a “natural centrepiece” for his development.
He doesn’t even know what he’s destroying.
How could he?
My phone buzzes again. Mara: “Coming to the pack meeting tomorrow?”
Today’s Sunday. Which means tomorrow, I’m going back to the Porkwell offices to… what, exactly? Argue more? Threaten them? Bat my eyelashes and hope they suddenly decide to abandon a multi-million dollar development project?
“Yes,” I type out. “Need to strategize.”
My thumb hovers over the send button. I should tell Mara more, but how do I explain any of this? As pack beta and my closest friend since cubhood, she’d be the first to smell the Porkwell scent lingering on my skin. And Alpha Thorncrest, with her uncanny ability to detect dishonesty, would see right through any attempt to downplay my… complications.
The pack trusted me to represent them. Me, the University-educated wolf who could speak the language of urban planningand environmental law. “You understand their world,” Alpha had said when she appointed me liaison. “But you’ll never forget who you are.”
Except here I am, forgetting quite spectacularly.
If they knew I’d been in Percy Porkwell’s bed, let alone found myself thinking about his brothers, I’d lose more than my position as liaison. I’d lose the respect of wolves who’ve been my family since birth. Who trusted me to protect what generations have fought to preserve.
The pack needs to know about Percy’s plans. About how seductively reasonable they seem. About how they still ultimately mean the end of our forest as we know it.
I delete the message to Mara and instead, I write: “Can’t make it.”
I wander into the bathroom and start the shower, cranking the heat until steam billows.
“They’re pigs,” I remind myself, voice echoing against the tile as I wash. “The Big Bad Wolf doesn’t get hot for pigs.”
And yet here I am, the water running cold before I realize how long I’ve been standing here, lost in fantasy.
I towel off and pull on an oversized t-shirt, crawling into bed though I know sleep will be elusive. My laptop sits on the nightstand, Percy’s email with the full design proposal downloaded but unopened. I should look at it. Know thy enemy and all that.
But not tonight. Tonight, I need to remember what I’m fighting for.
I close my eyes and let my mind wander to Wolfstone. To the feeling of dirt beneath my paws, wind ruffling my fur as I run beneath a canopy of ancient oaks and pines. To the scent of pine needles and loam and the thousand subtle notes that make up the perfume of home. To the moonlight filtering through leaves, dappling the forest floor with silver.
This is what they want to take away. This is what they want to “improve.” This is what I’ll die defending if I have to.
But emotional appeals won’t sway the Porkwell’s. I need concrete arguments, irrefutable data.
My thoughts drift to my grandmother, fierce defender of our pack lands until her last breath. What would she think of me now, lusting after the very creatures threatening our home? I can almost hear her snort of derision.
“I know, Nana,” I whisper to the dark room. “I’m getting it under control.”
The Porkwell's may be handsome—irritatingly, confusingly—but they're still the enemy. And on Monday, I'll remember that. Even if the universe has a sick sense of humor, making them this devastatingly fuckable. I'll walk into their sleek office with my head high and my arguments sharp.
I’ll be Ruby Wolfhart, an environmental activist and a proud wolf shifter. Not Ruby Wolfhart, a confused mess of hormones.
Rolling onto my side, I pull up the forest preserve proposal I’ve been working on. Alternative plans to present to the city council, showing how Wolfstone could be protected as a natural space while still bringing economic benefits to the area. Eco-tourism. Research opportunities. Sustainable harvesting of certain forest products.
