Once, at a city council meeting, he’d actually held the door for me and apologized when Hamilton had cut me off mid-speech. “Everyone deserves to be heard,” he’d murmured, earning a glare from his eldest brother.
He’s always been the odd pig out, more interested in his gadgets than in building developments. I wonder what secrets I could extract from him if I played my cards right.
I don’t see Percy, the middle brother. The architect.
The one whose signature appears on all the Wolfstone development plans.
The one I need to corner.
He’s the pretty boy with a ruthless signature stroke—designer stubble, golden-brown hair that’s always a little too perfectly tousled, and those smug, brown eyes that have probably undone half the city. Add a killer smile, and you’ve got a predator in a pig’s suit.
My plan is to catch him alone, hit him where it hurts, and make him reconsider his family’s latest atrocity.
I weave through the crowd as a group of cows and pigs giggle nearby. Their animal traits are on full display—twitching ears, curled tails, cloven hooves peeking out from designer heels. They look about ready to stampede the stage as they whisper and nod toward Hamilton, eying him like he’s the main course—ironic, considering they’re the ones built for slaughter.
Predators may be an endangered species around here, but one thing’s clear: the Porkwell’s are in no danger of losing their title of Shiftown’s most eligible bachelors.
What a joke.
Pigs are usually smaller, with more girth than height. But the Porkwell’s?
Those damn pigs have been blessed by the pork gods. They’re tall and trim, at least by swine standards, like they were made in a lab for high-end breeding. I guess it explains why cows drop their milk and pigs squeal for a piece.
My eyes swivel back to Prescott.
He taps away on a tablet, oblivious to the crowd around him. He has the same deep concentration in his eyes that I get when I’m working. It’s like the whole world disappears when I’m focusing. But it’s more than that—he’s not just absorbed in his work.
He looks nervous. Anxious, out of place in a way I recognize.
I brush past the crowd, determined to find Percy and make him listen.
I’m sure he’s around here somewhere, charming the pants off some unsuspecting female and casually avoiding me like the smug bastard he is. Can’t say I blame him; I wouldn’t want to face me either.
Every moment I waste is another moment the Wolfstone plans move forward. It’s another moment lost, and I can’t let this be last year all over again.
“Looking for someone?” A voice like velvet sounds just behind my right ear.
I don’t jump, but I’m rattled, nonetheless. I turn and find myself face-to-tusk with Percy Porkwell himself.
“Mr. Porkwell.” I take a step back and extend my hand professionally, noting that he’s better looking this close than under the harsh lighting of our often heated debates in court or in the multiple newspaper clippings plastered across my research board. His eyes are sharp and intelligent, his tusks tastefully maintained, and his navy suit is clearly custom. “Ruby Wolfhart, Wolf Preservation Representative.”
He takes my hand, and his grip is firm—warm.
“I know exactly who you are, Ms. Wolfhart. “We’ve met before. Several times, in fact. Though I don’t recall you ever offering a handshake. And your opinion piece in the Shiftown Gazette last week called my family—let me see if I remember correctly—‘environmental terrorists with the foresight of lemmings and the ethical compass of vultures.’”
“I stand by my assessment.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “The vultures filed a speciesist complaint, by the way.”
“Of course they did.” I resist rolling my eyes. “Look, Mr. Porkwell—”
“Percy, please.”
“Mr. Porkwell,” I say, withdrawing my hand from his lingering grasp. “I’m here to discuss Wolfstone.”
He sips his amber-colored drink—whiskey, neat, I can smell it—and regards me with unexpected interest.
“I gathered as much. Though most activists prefer protest signs to formal wear. I must say, the suit is a good look for you.”
