It’s good. Solid. Not as immediately profitable as luxury homes and a resort, but better for the environment. Better for the community.
Better for my people.
Monday. I’ll make them listen.
Not just any wolf.
I’m Ruby Wolfhart, daughter of Luna and Harry Wolfhart, granddaughter of Silverfang, descended from the original pack that roamed these forests long before the first human structures rose. This land wasn’t just wild frontier—it was our home. Myancestors survived centuries of persecution, adaptation, and change without losing their essential nature.
I won't be the one to break that chain.
Some stories have been told for centuries for a reason.
The big bad wolf doesn't fall for the three little pigs.
She eats them.
Time to remind them why wolves were the monsters in their bedtime stories.
7
Ruby
Iburst through the glass doors of Porkwell Offices like I’m leading a one-wolf invasion.
Which, technically, I am.
My claws click against the polished marble floor—metaphorically speaking, since I’m unfortunately in human form and wearing my battle boots instead.
The receptionist’s eyes widen as I march past her desk, my fangs practically bared.
Okay, so my actual human teeth aren’t that impressive, but the snarl on my face must be doing the job because she doesn’t even try to stop me.
“Miss! You can’t just—” she calls after me, but I’m already halfway to the elevator, jabbing the up button with enough force to potentially break it.
“Watch me,” I mutter, stepping inside when the doors slide open with an annoyingly cheerful ding. I punch the button for the top floor. Executive suite. Where pigs in suits plot to destroy my pack’s ancestral lands while sipping twelve-dollar coffee.
The elevator whooshes upward, and I use the thirty seconds to gather my thoughts. The plans I found in Percy’s apartment, the overheard conversation with Hamilton, the ridiculous post-sex promises that were probably just Percy’s way of getting me to stop barking about environmental impact studies. Well, they’re about to face the full fury of Ruby Wolfhart, conservation warrior and defender of Wolfstone.
And, yes, the same Ruby Wolfhart who slept with one of them less than forty-eight hours ago.
The elevator doors slide open to another reception area, this one sleeker, with abstract art of geometric shapes a toddler could create. The receptionist here—different from downstairs, blonde and polished within an inch of her life—stands immediately.
“Excuse me, do you have an appointment with—”
“Ruby Wolfhart. Tell them I’m here for the meeting.”
“I don’t see a Ruby Wolfhart in the calendar.” She squints at her computer screen, perfectly manicured nails clicking against the keyboard.
“It’s an emergency meeting. About Wolfstone.” I lean forward, dropping my voice. “You might want to tell them I’m here before I decide to make a scene. I’m known for being quite… vocal.”
Her eyes dart to the phone, then back to me. “One moment, please.”
While she makes the call, I notice the three distinct office spaces branching off from this central area. Each door has a name: Hamilton Porkwell, CEO. Prescott Porkwell, CTO. Percy Porkwell, CMO and Chief Architect. Of course they each need their own executive suites.
The receptionist hangs up. “Mr. Hamilton says they’re in a meeting and cannot be disturbed right now. He suggests scheduling something for next week.”
I snort. “Perfect. Then they’re all in one place.”
