I could’ve walked away. Could’ve said no, even through the haze of instinct and heat-slick desperation.
But I didn’t.
And now I’m hiding in a damn closet, still aching for him.
My mind rewinds to just a few hours ago, when I was still clothed, dignified, and hadn’t yet discovered what Percy Porkwell could do with that mouth of his…
2
Ruby
Four hours earlier…
I’m standing at the bar of The Golden Trough, the most pretentious watering hole in Shiftown, where the drinks are overpriced, and the clientele is mostly hooved.
The Trough is all new money and new tech—crystal chandeliers reflecting off the smartphones of Shiftown’s elite. Pigs, horses, cattle, and prey shifters dominate the room, their expensive colognes and perfumes assaulting my sensitive nose.
My palms are sweaty around my sparkling water (fifteen dollars, highway robbery), and my tailored red pantsuit feels too tight.
It’s borrowed, by the way. I don’t do galas unless I have to. I do town halls and policy drafts and late-night ramen noodles.
TheAnnual Builders Association Galais the last place any self-respecting wolf wants to be, but I’m here on official Wolf Preservation Committeebusiness. Specifically, to stop the Porkwell Brothers from turning the last piece of ancestral wolf territory into luxury condos with “authentic wilderness views.”
The irony is thick enough to choke on.
I spot exactly three other predator species, all wearing the same uncomfortable expression I’m probably sporting; the face of someone who knows they don’t belong.
The predators have become the outcasts, the unwanted, the lowest members of society, all because of our biology.
The bartender, a nervous-looking rabbit shifter with large white bunny ears, keeps a careful distance as he asks. “Another sparkling water, ma’am?”
“No, thanks.” I force a smile that doesn’t show too many teeth. Since the Predator Registration Act was passed five years ago, showing fangs in public can get you slapped with an “intimidation” fine.
I scan the room for my targets.
The Porkwell brothers are Shiftown royalty. Over three generations, their family transformed the city from a mixed forest-meadow ecosystem into a concrete jungle.
Their grandfather started with straw—cheap, fast builds on stolen land. Their father graduated to sticks, expanding into lumber developments and log homes that carved deeper into the once-protected wilderness. Now the three brothers specialize in brick and steel monstrosities that scrape the sky, hoarding the skyline like it’s their birthright.
Hamilton, Percy, and Prescott Porkwell—three little pigs who grew up to become very big problems for predator-kind. ThePorkwell empire follows them: real estate, tech, and anti-predator politics.
And I’m determined to dismantle it one brick at a time.
I spot Hamilton, the eldest, holding court near the stage. He’s all business—tailored suit stretched tight across his broad shoulders, gold watch catching the light as he gesticulates to Mayor Hoofington. I can practically hear his oozing condescension from here, crafting deals and alliances that serve their agenda and crush ours.
“You’re not welcome here,” Hamilton had said to me at last year’s gala in those exact words. He wasn’t just referring to the event.
“Predators don’t belong in civilized Shiftown.”
I had almost been escorted out by security, saved only by the strategic arrival of the press. But this year, it’s different. This year, it will be me who does the kicking out.
My claws itch to wipe the smug right off his face.
But not yet. The time will come.
The youngest, Prescott, hovers near the tech display, probably pitching his latest “smart home” security system. His previous invention was specifically designed to detect predator heat signatures—the paranoid bacon strip.
He notices me watching and, unlike his brother Hamilton, who would scowl or ignore me entirely, Prescott offers a small nod of acknowledgment.
