But no—Hamilton insists on developing the one patch of land that happens to be ancestral wolf territory. The one projectguaranteed to bring Ruby Wolfhart growling into our lobby every other week.
Then again, maybe that’s the point.
Before Ruby, the three of us shared everything. Females included. It was never complicated—no jealousy, no possessiveness. Just Porkwell boys being Porkwell boys, as our father used to say with that disturbing wink of his.
But Ruby changed the dynamic.
Percy got defensive after their night together, keeping details to himself that he’d normally share over morning coffee.
And Hamilton? He’s been checking the Pred Tracker logs daily, scrolling through footage of Ruby like some lovesick teenager.
On screen, Ruby looks up directly at Camera 72. She can’t possibly know it’s there—I designed it to be invisible, even to enhanced wolf senses—but her gaze sends a chill down my spine, anyway.
“I know you’re watching,” she says.
She doesn’t, of course. She’s just venting. But for a second, I feel exposed.
I switch to thermal view, monitoring her vital signs. Elevated heart rate, but decreasing. The panic is subsiding. Still, she looks lost out there, trapped between sky and pavement with nowhere to run.
Something twists in my chest. I’ve always liked Ruby. Not in the way my brothers do—with their primal, possessive hunger—but in a way that’s harder to define.
She treats me like a person, not a Porkwell. When we’ve crossed paths at city meetings, she asks about my projects with genuine interest. She remembered my obscure reference to quantum computing last month.
Most females only see what they can get from a Porkwell. Ruby sees… me. She looked at me like I was a person worth knowing, not just a Porkwell worth using.
I close the monitoring screens with a decisive keystroke and stand up. I should just stay here, safe in my digital fortress. Let Hamilton and Percy handle their wolf problem.
But that’s the thing—she’s not a problem.
She’s a person. A passionate, intelligent person currently having a panic attack on our terrace because my brothers can’t keep their snouts out of places they don’t belong.
I grab a bottle of water from my mini-fridge. My reflection in the glass door looks back at me—disheveled dark hair, glasses slightly askew, the least imposing of the three Porkwell brothers.
“This is probably a mistake,” I tell my reflection.
Yet I’m already heading for the elevator, rehearsing what to say. How to approach a distressed wolf without getting my face bitten off.
The elevator hums softly as it carries me. Camera feeds inside the car show me from four angles—rumpled button-down with yesterday’s coffee stain I thought no one would notice, and the awkward hunch of someone more comfortable with machines than mammals.
Not exactly knight-in-shining-armor material. But maybe that’s not what Ruby needs right now.
As the door slides open on the terrace, the afternoon sun momentarily blinds me. I blink, adjusting to natural light for what feels like the first time in days.
And there she is—Ruby Wolfhart, silhouetted against the city skyline, wild and beautiful and utterly out of place in our sterile corporate world.
I step forward, the water bottle cold in my sweaty palm, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
* * *
Ruby doesn’t hear me approach until I’m about ten feet away. When she finally senses me, she whirls around like she’s ready to fight or flee—probably both.
Her eyes are wild, pupils dilated, and there’s a red spot on her neck that looks suspiciously like my brother tried to bite her.
I hold up the water bottle as a peace offering, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t hard for me. I’m the Porkwell least likely to be featured in “Shiftown’s Most Eligible Bachelors.”
“It’s just water,” I say, extending my arm while maintaining a safe distance. “No roofies, I promise. Though I can’t speak for what Hamilton keeps in his office.”
She doesn’t laugh.
