“God, I hope so,” I grin at him, and this time, he smiles back.
The bartender brings our drinks. We talk. About nothing important at first—the music, the crowd, and the quality of the whiskey. Then, about other things, like his travels through different territories, my studies under Matriarch Lydia, and the strangeness of being in Grayhide, where men hold power and women defer to them. It’s the complete opposite of everything I’ve known.
“Must be strange for you,” Patrick says. “Coming from a place where women run everything.”
“Strange in a good way, mostly. Though I think my father would love it here. He’s been having a hard time since the curse broke. All the women in his life suddenly have these intense emotions and are free to express them. I don’t think he knows what to do with us anymore.”
Patrick lifts an eyebrow. “Sounds like he preferred the old arrangement.”
“Maybe.” I take a long sip of my whiskey to avoid saying more. The truth is, I’ve barely spoken to my father in months. He’s been distant in a different way than before—notthe comfortable distance of the curse, but something colder. Something that feels like resentment. I don’t want to think about what that means, so I push the thought away and focus on the man in front of me instead. “But I didn’t come here to talk about my family.”
He listens when I talk, really listens, leaning in to catch my words over the noise of the bar. I watch his throat move when he swallows his whiskey, his hands as they wrap around his glass, strong and capable, and his eyes as they watch my mouth when I lick a stray drop of liquor from my lower lip.
The heat between us builds with every minute that passes. Every accidental brush of skin, every loaded glance, and every laugh brings us closer together.
By the time I finish my fifth drink, I know exactly what I want. And I’m pretty sure he wants it, too.
I stand and hold out my hand. “Dance with me.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow. “I don’t dance.”
I grab his hand and pull, using my whole body weight to drag him off his stool. He could resist easily—he’s twice my size—but he lets me tow him toward the dance floor like I actually have the strength to move him. “That’s why it’ll be fun.”
The music pulses through the floorboards and into my bones. I turn to face him and place his hands on my waist before I drape my arms over his shoulders. His fingers flex against my hips, pulling me closer until our bodies mold together from chest to thigh.
We move together, badly, at first, stepping on each other’s feet, bumping into other couples, and laughing at our own clumsiness. But then something clicks, and we find arhythm that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the chemistry between us.
His breath is hot against my temple as I curl my fingers into his shirt. I can feel every inch of his body pressed against mine—the hard planes of his chest, the solid muscle of his thighs, and something else that’s growing harder by the second.
I look up at him. He looks down at me.
And I know, with perfect clarity, exactly how this night is going to end.
Chapter 2 - Patrick
I came to Grayhide territory to forget.
The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I expected—a man who looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Dark circles sit heavily under my eyes, there’s a fresh cut above my eyebrow from a training session gone wrong, and my stare has gone hollow from watching too many people die for nothing. I splash cold water on my face and hold on to the edges of the sink until my knuckles turn white.
When the allied packs captured Mordaunt years ago, I thought things might finally change. I thought maybe Thornridge would have to retreat, regroup, and become something different without his obsession driving us forward. But Bastian got him out a few months ago, and everything went right back to the way it was. Worse, even, because now Mordaunt has something to prove.
Just weeks ago, I watched Thornridge wolves—my packmates, my brothers—get slaughtered in another one of Thane Mordaunt’s brilliant plans to seize the Amanzite reserves in Badlands. Wolves I’ve trained with for years. Wolves, I’ve shared countless meals with around campfires in hostile territory. Wolves who trusted our alpha to lead them somewhere other than an early grave.
They trusted wrong.
I trusted wrong.
The doubt started creeping in months ago, back when Bastian Corvelli laughed while describing how he’d manipulated that Llewelyn woman into nearly marrying him. I remember the look on his face as he recounted every detail of his deception—the pride in his voice, the gleam in his eyes. He enjoyed it. Notjust the victory, but the suffering he caused. The hearts he broke. The lives he ruined.
That’s when I started paying closer attention to the wolves around me. I started noticing which ones followed orders because they believed in the cause and which ones followed because they were afraid of what would happen if they didn’t. The second group was larger than I’d ever realized. Much larger.
I’m not supposed to be here. Thornridge wolves don’t just wander into enemy territory for a drink. If Mordaunt found out, he’d have me skinned alive as an example to the others. Desertion isn’t tolerated. Questions aren’t tolerated. Anything less than absolute loyalty is grounds for execution.
But I needed distance. I needed to think without Mordaunt’s propaganda ringing in my ears or Bastian’s smug face reminding me of everything wrong with the pack I’ve called home for sixteen years. I needed silence, I needed whiskey, and I needed to figure out if there’s any part of my life worth salvaging.
So I crossed the border, kept my head down, and found this bar at the edge of Grayhide territory. From what I gather, the Rusty Fang doesn’t ask questions. The bartender doesn’t care where I come from as long as my money is good, and the whiskey is strong enough to quiet the voice in my head that keeps asking what the point of any of it is.
At least, it was quiet until about an hour ago.
