Alpha's Command E-Book

Rose Renee

• Herausgeber: Midnight Romance
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

She’s a human. Forbidden. My brother’s widow. 
But deep down, my wolf believes she's mine. 

Before my brother died, he made me swear to stand by his human mate and their son. It's been 10 years since his death, and I've done my best. I joined the military, got my sh*& straight. 

I sent money but stayed away from Julia and my nephew. Stayed out of their life. She didn't need a screw-up like me hanging around. 

That was the lie I told myself. The truth was, I couldn’t resolve my attraction to her. And I can't dishonor my brother's memory by claiming his wife.

But now her pup has entered puberty. He’s become a wolf. He needs me there to guide and protect him. 

Julia hasn't forgiven me for the years I stayed away, but this time I'll do right by her. I’d do anything for the two of them.

The trouble is–she’s the one I want to guide. Protect. Command.
She’s the one I crave and will until my last breath.

Don't miss the next installment of Renee Rose and Lee Savino's USA Today Bestselling Shifter Ops series in which Channing meets his forbidden mate. Overprotective wolf shifter guaranteed.

Leseprobe

Alpha’s Command

Shifter Ops

Renee Rose

Lee Savino

Copyright © November 2022 Alpha’s Command by Renee Rose and Lee Savino

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published in the United States of America

Midnight Romance, LLC

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!

Want FREE books?

Go to http://subscribepage.com/alphastemp to sign up for Renee Rose’s newsletter and receive a free books. In addition to the free stories, you will also get special pricing, exclusive previews and news of new releases.

Download a free Lee Savino book from www.leesavino.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Want FREE books?

Other Titles by Renee Rose

Also by Lee Savino

About Renee Rose

About Lee Savino

ChapterOne

Channing

I prowl on four paws through the pine trees, closing in on the house. It’s a small split-level, set back from the road and surrounded by trees. The lot’s on the end of a cul-de-sac, and the backyard abuts the Coconino National Forest. Plenty of wilderness, plenty of cover to run. My wolf approves.

So did my brother when he bought it fourteen years ago and settled with his newly pregnant mate. When life was good and the future was bright.

Then he died, and everything changed.

Almost everything. The house still looks the same. She’s taken good care of it. The paint has faded, and the roof will need replacing, but otherwise, it’s frozen in time.

The scents are the same—juniper and boxelder, pine.

The wind picks up, and I catch another scent, one I’m trying not to notice. It curls into my senses, a delicious perfume that makes my fangs sharpen, and my mouth waters.

Lilac and lavender.

My Kryptonite.

My wolf wants to cross the fifty feet separating us from the house, to find the source of the perfume and bask in it.

Instead, I turn and trot on silent paws past the house, up the hill where a Ponderosa pine stretches to the sky. I still remember the day we climbed the hill. I admired the view of Mount Elden, but my brother only had eyes for his house. For his human wife and young son playing on the patio.

Promise me, my brother demanded all those years ago. He had an army training position at Camp Navajo, but he’d been sought out for active duty by someone who knew what he was. Someone who needed his kind in the field. Just for a short-term mission.

I rub against the pine bark, searching for any lingering scent of him.

And then I catch it–a rich male wolf musk. It smells like my brother, but he’s dead. Which means it must belong to Geo, his son.

My nephew’s been running through these woods.

That means he’s shifted. We weren’t sure whether he would. Mixing shifter blood with a human’s can wipe out the shifting ability in offspring, but puberty hormones must’ve kicked Geo’s wolf-shifter genes to life.

Which means I can no longer stay away. Julia won’t know how to guide her son through this.

Geo needs me.

Looking closer, I catch sight of claw marks on the tree, like Geo was tormented by his new shape. Frustrated and alone.

Fuck.

Deke expects me at the job site, and if I’m late, he’ll be pissed. More pissed than usual. I’ll have to come back in the morning, as soon as this mission is complete.

I lope down the hill and head the long way around the house. A light turns on in the upstairs bedroom, and for a moment, a woman’s silhouette appears. Everything in me longs to change plans and head back to the house. Make sure the door is locked. Make sure she’s safe.

Instead, I turn and run away from temptation.

Away from the only woman I’ve ever wanted.

The only woman I can’t have.

* * *

I zoom up to the row of abandoned warehouses at midnight. Right on time.

Deke waits in an old van painted matte black. The sort of van that workmen use… or kidnappers. We got the van after a mission that involved a hostage situation if I remember correctly.

I park my bike and rap on the van’s side door. “Hey, man, got any free candy?”

Deke rolls down the window but doesn’t answer–just frowns at me. He’s got “resting murder face” as Lana, Teddy’s new mate, likes to call it.

“You look like a serial killer,” I tell him. He glowers harder. “What? It’s a compliment.”

“Why were you late?” he growls. “You left Taos before I did.”

“Pit stop.” I waggle my brows, so he’ll look away, disgusted. Let him think I was at a bar, hitting on the ladies, making any lingering lavender and lilac scent unimportant. No way I’m telling him where I really was.

“This the place?” I nod to the farthest warehouse, built right up against the forest. This whole commercial strip is quiet at night, but there’s a light on above that warehouse door. Every once in a while, a shadowy figure glides from the forest and slips inside.

Deke drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “GPS says so.”

“Let me go in first, do some reconnaissance. I got a hookup.” I hold up my phone, where I’ve been texting with the fight club organizers.

“What if the targets make you?”

“They’re not targets. They’re kids.”

“Teenagers,” Deke grumbles, his eyes penetrating the darkness. “Why am I on babysitting duty?”

“Hey, this is good practice. You know your mate Sadie is going to want a full house.”

The name of his mate softens his expression, as I knew it would.

“Picture it,” I say as I reach up, hands framing the pretend screen, to distract myself from the bite of longing in my own chest and to keep him from picking up on my feelings. “You, Sadie, seven pups–”

“Seven?” His black brows fly up as if picturing this scene I’m painting.

“Yeah, and they’re rolling around on the floor, biting your boots.” I grin at the alarm spreading from Deke’s eyes through his facial expression. “Has Sadie not told you how many kids she wants?”

“Two to four,” he says slowly.

“There you go,” I grin. “You have four kids. Throw in a set of twins or triplets, a few surprises. Happy accidents. It’ll be great.”

Deke’s Adam’s apple bobs, and his hands squeeze the steering wheel. He looks ready to throw the van in reverse and race out of here.

“Daddy Deke.” I smile to fan the fire, and he looks at me like he wants to run me over as he flees the scene.

My work done, I slap the side of the van like a big exclamation point and saunter towards the warehouse as if I’ve got nothing on my mind but this little rescue mission.

More people stream into the side door. A quiet commercial strip with an abandoned building right near the forest is the perfect place to host a pop-up shifter fight club. The organizers, Trey and Jared, have a regular place in Tucson, Arizona. But tonight’s fight is special.

A pack of acid-green Kawasaki ninjas zooms past me. They go from sixty to zero, sending up a spray of gravel as they park. The gangly bikers dismount and huddle together. Werecheetahs. I can spot them a mile away. They like fast bikes and tight leather.

A few glance at me as I pass, their eyes flashing green. I pretend to ignore them, avoiding eye contact. My wolf is riled up after stopping by Julia’s. He wants to go back and claim what he thinks is his. I won’t let him, so he’s itching for a fight.

More shifters have flocked to the warehouse and are hanging around the door. I walk through a cloud of smoke and musky scents.

A familiar wolf shifter steps outside and surveys the crowd. He’s wearing jeans, scuffed motorcycle boots, and a white t-shirt under a leather jacket. The only difference between his outfit and mine is the insignia on the jacket–a snarling wolf with the words ‘Tucson Pack’ emblazoned underneath. “Fight starting in twenty,” he announces and stands aside to let his customers hurry inside.

I step out of the shadows, and he clocks my scent. We both grin and step forward to slap each other on the back.

“Jared,” I greet him.

“Channing, my brother. Glad you could make it.”

“I’m here on business,” I remind him. “Package pick up.”

“Right. They’re inside. Trey’s been keeping an eye on them. You sure they can’t stay? They’re adults.”

“They’re barely eighteen. You know how young shifters are.”

“Yeah.” Jared blows out a breath. “But part of me thinks they just need role models.”

“They have five older brothers. Their brothers would be here themselves, but Matthias is busy at the hospital, and Teddy and Darius are away on business. Separate business,” I add before Jared asks if Teddy made up with his twin brother. “Darius is in New York. Teddy’s in L.A. with his new mate.”

“I heard he got a mate. Your whole pack’s found their mates, what… just this year?”

“Last twelve months,” I say. “Yup. The whole pack.”

Except me.

“Nice,” Jared says.

“How’s Angelina?” I ask before he can ask about my mate situation.

His face softens like Deke’s did when I mention his mate. “She’s great. Real great. Back in Tucson getting ready for a show. Her troupe’s performing this weekend.”

“I can’t believe you came all the way up here for a fight club. You’ve got a sweet place in Tucson.”

“Full house every night,” he says with satisfaction. “But Sheridan’s making it more of a hipster beer bar thing. Sometimes we miss the old vibe, so we do these pop-up clubs. We found this abandoned strip. Thought it’d be perfect.” He directs me inside, and the thick miasma of scents hits me. Weed, beer, unwashed shifters of all sorts. The big, open space is crowded with people, hazy with smoke and sawdust. The only lights are two spotlights trained on the ring in the center of the room. The crowd mills about, murmuring, betting, craning their necks to spot the fighters. The place hums with anticipation.

A trio of shifters stand in one corner, taking bets. Their scents are weird, a mishmash of animals. The tallest of them, a painfully thin white guy with bottle cap glasses, sneezes and delicate white feathers puff out of his jacket. He catches me staring at him and sneezes again. More feathers fly. His buddies pat his back without looking up from their notebooks.

I jerk my chin up in a reverse nod to signal that everything’s cool.

“They’re over there.” Jared points to a shadowy corner beyond the fighting ring. “With Caleb. He’s the headline fight tonight.”

“I thought Caleb retired? Lives up in the mountains with his mate?”

“He does. We talked him into one fight. That’s why we did the pop-up here near Flagstaff–he was already in the area. His mate is doing some research on Grand Canyon trees. Some science shit. Otherwise, he wouldn’t come. No fun being on the road when you have a beautiful mate waiting for you at home.”

“I bet,” I say.

He glances at me, and I keep my expression light and casual. Is he remembering that I’m the only one in the pack without a mate? Is there pity in his eyes?

“I better pick up the packages before they get into trouble. Thanks, man.” We share another back slap, and I head toward the corner. All this talk about mates has my wolf on edge. That’s part of the reason I volunteered for this mission. Everyone in my pack is mated up. Even Lance, former fuck boy, is happily settled down with a mate and a baby girl.

I weave through the clusters of shifters to the back where the fighters are waiting to be called. The packages–the three teens I’m supposed to pick up and carry home safely–stand in a knot around one of the most famous fighters.

A sharp scent of clove tickles my nose. Someone’s wearing clove cologne. A shifter only does that when trying to hide their scent.

The clove perfume clears as I reach the trio of teens, and I get a face full of werebear teenager funk. The three skinny young men are identical triplets in an awkward teenage growth phase. Their arms and legs are stick thin, but their feet and hands are huge. They’re going to be taller than their brothers Axel, Teddy and Darius. Maybe even Matthias. But not Everest. And it’ll take a lot of food to bulk them up to fighting weight.

Not that I’m going to fight them.

The three triplets throng around a huge dude with a scary-ass beard. Another werebear named Caleb. The headline fighter.

“It was so awesome,” one of the triplets tells Caleb. This one is wearing a red kilt but no shirt. “You went two rounds and then bam.” The teen mimics an uppercut punch, complete with sound effects. “Whap, left hook, right hook,”

“It was a haymaker,” another triplet puts in. Bern, I think his name is. Bern is dressed in all-black head-to-toe, including Doc Martens and a black-on-black plaid kilt.

“Right, a haymaker,” the shirtless triplet says. I’m pretty sure his name is Canyon. “And then you slammed into the ropes and then–”

“Another haymaker,” puts in the third triplet. He’s in a red plaid kilt and a white tunic-like shirt with billowing sleeves–like a pirate’s. Hutch, his family calls him.

“Yeah,” says Canyon. His Adam’s apple wobbles as he shadow-boxes. “And then he falls, and it was epic–”

“Yeah, I know,” Caleb says. “I was there.” His huge beard hides his expression, but I sense his amusement.

“We didn’t see the fight, but our brother did and told us. We came all the way from Bad Bear Mountain,” says Canyon. “We’re your biggest fans.”

“Hey, guys.” I lean in and slap Bern and Hutch on the back, getting a grip of their t-shirts. “Your brother, Matthias, wants to know why you didn’t show up to class today.”

The triplets stiffen. Canyon glances across the warehouse to the single entrance or exit but doesn’t run. If he does, I’ll cuff his two brothers and then text Deke.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say. “Shifter Fight Club is twenty-one and older.”

“No one’s checking IDs,” Hutch protests.

“We’re almost nineteen,” Bern adds. “That’s at least twenty-one in shifter years.”

“You’re nineteen?” I ask. They act younger, but Teddy told me their puberty was rough with their animals taking over and forcing them to shift. Their ma had to homeschool them. They’ve been sheltered from the outside world. No wonder they sound so naive.

“We’re late bloomers,” Hutch says, his voice cracking. “Darius told us he and Teddy were exactly the same. Late puberty.”

The triplets nod in unison.

Caleb watches our interchange closely. “How do they know their brother sent you?”

“Brothers, plural. Check your phones,” I order the triplets.

“I forgot mine.” Canyon crosses his arms across his shirtless chest. He’s going to be a handful.

Bern and Hutch have already fished their phones out of the small pouches they’re wearing at their waist. There are tons of texts from their brothers Matthias, Teddy, and Darius, including a picture of me. “This is Channing. Go with him and do what he says,” I recite one of the texts.

Hutch shows it to Caleb, who nods.

“You heard him, boys.” Caleb says. “You can see me fight when you’re a little older.”

The triplets deflate.

“But you’re retired,” Hutch says mournfully.

“Officially. I’ll talk to Jared and Trey and schedule something for two years from now.”

“You would do that?” Canyon asks. “For us?”

“Yep. You’re my biggest fans.” Caleb jerks his chin in my direction. With one last slap on Canyon’s shoulder, he heads off into the gloom.

In the center of the ring, Jared calls for the first two fighters to take their places. Spectators press close to the ring.

“Come on, we gotta go,” I say.

“Can we just see one fight?” Hutch pleads. “Please?”

I hesitate. What will one little fight hurt? But something tugs in me, so I don’t pause. “Your brothers want you back. They said you’ve been acting suspicious for weeks. Drinking giant protein shakes and streaming Rocky movies nonstop.”

“That’s not suspicious.”

“Yeah, we always do that.”

In the ring, two fighters circle each other. One’s a cheetah shifter, I can tell by the way his pack–or coalition in cheetah-speak--presses close to the ropes and shouts encouragement. Jared and another lanky wolf shifter, a tall guy with a mohawk and big ear gauges, keep telling the cheetahs to move back.

“First fight is Speed Ballz versus Benny the Biter,” Hutch says, pointing to a big chalkboard over by the bookies. Speed Ballz is such a cheetah biker name.

My eye catches on the names scrawled in a fight lower down. “The Kilted Killers?” I read, and the triplets freeze. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

Hutch and Bern hang their heads.

“We wanted to fight,” Canyon says. “Some guy challenged us.”

“He said if we lost, we’d owe him a favor,” Hutch pipes up.

“What the fuck? That’s not how shifter fights work. What guy?”

The triplets shrug in perfect unison. Their movements are so similar, it’s like they choreographed them.

“Enough of this.” I point to the warehouse door. I’ll have to herd them through the crowd. “Start walking.”

Canyon mutters something I don’t catch, but the three obediently turn and tromp towards the door. I direct them along a path on the periphery of the warehouse. The fight is in full force, and the warehouse shakes with shouts. Then Benny the Biter gives into his nickname and tries to eat his opponent and is disqualified. The crowd deflates, except for the cheetahs, who carry their hero on their shoulders out the door.

“Hang on,” I order the triplets. We’re almost to the door, but the cheetahs are swamping it. “Let’s wait a second.”

Got the package, I text Deke. We’ll be out in five.

10-4. He texts back. Any hostiles?

No.

Jared steps into the ring, announcing the next match. The cheetahs are almost all out of the door. The triplets wait beside me, their eyes glued longingly to the chalkboard. Calebs’ fight is last. Too bad. It’s tempting to allow the Terrible Threes to stay and watch him. Jared’s right, teens need role models.

We’re close enough I can read the name on the giant chalkboard opposite the “Kilted Killers.” Some guy named Hannibal. Not a fighter I’ve heard of before.

I signal to the gray-headed bookie and point to the Kilted Killers’ fight. “Can you remove that match? These guys are forfeiting.”

The bookie nods and signals his tall, feathery friend to cross out the fight.

“Next time, guys,” I tell the triplets, who look mournful. “By the way, what's with the kilts?” I ask Hutch.

“Our mother is a MacDonald,” Hutch informs me glumly.

The way to the door is clear, so I signal them to keep moving. We step out into the night air. More cars have filled the parking lot. Beyond them, the cheetahs have built a big bonfire in the center of their assembled bikes.

“Hey,” Canyon asks. “Are you on your bike?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“How are we getting home if you’re on your bike?” Bern asks.

“How did you get here?” I return.

“We hitchhiked,” Hutch pipes up. His two brothers shoot him a dirty look.

“You hitchhiked.” I shake my head. I’ll have to tell Teddy. He’ll shit a brick.

“We can steal some bikes and ride with you.” Canyon’s looking longingly at the cheetah’s crotch rockets. “We know how to hotwire–”

“No stealing. No bikes. We’re not riding. Come on, Deke is waiting in the van.”

The Terrible Threes stop as one. “The creeper van?” one asks.

“Uh, yeah.” I hide a smile.

“Awesome,” says Bern. Hutch and Canyon exchange high fives.

“Wait,” I say. “Are you excited to ride in the back of the creeper van?”

“Yeah!”

“Duh.”

“Stoked!”

I shake my head. Teenagers. No use trying to understand them. “Let’s go,” I order. Deke is parked in the same place. I could text him, but he can’t pull the van up much closer than he is now. To the right are a bunch of parked cars and more shifters on Harleys beyond that. To the left is the forest. “We have to pass the cheetah pack.”

“Coalition,” Hutch says. “A group of cheetahs is called a coalition.”

“Right. We’ll have to pass the coalition. Keep your eyes averted. Hide your fangs. No posing, no challenging.”

We’re almost to the bonfire when a giant steps out from a set of parked cars and blocks our path. Beefy dude with black shades. The giant stands between us and the cheetah bonfire. I can’t tell because of the flickering firelight, but the skin outside of his sunglasses looks scarred up. Weird. It takes a lot of effort to get a shifter to scar like that. The only way I know to scar a shifter is to use vampire blood.

Who is this guy? I take a big sniff and end up getting a noseful of clove cologne. The scent numbs my nose to the point my sense of smell is useless. Asshole.

Behind me, the triplets have gone still.

“Hey man,” I say. “Not to be rude, but you’re wearing sunglasses at night.”

The triplets titter behind me, but the clove-scented poser in front of me gives no answer.

“No? Okay, I respect your fashion choices.”

“They promised me a fight,” the man rumbles, pointing a finger at the werebears behind me.

“Hannibal?” I ask, guessing his name from the fighter listed as the Kilted Killers opponent. The giant nods. “They’re too young. And they’re not in your weight class.”

“I know,” Hannibal tilts his head and cracks his thick neck. “Was gonna fight three on one.”

I shrug. “Too bad. Wait a few years and these kids–” I toss a thumb over my shoulder, “–can do whatever they want. But tonight, it’s not happening.”

The party at the bonfire is heating up. More cat shifters have shown up on their crotch rockets. A few pass us, smelling of weed and grain alcohol. Two wereleopards–I can tell they’re leopards because who the fuck else would wear a leopard print leather jacket?–head over with jugs of gasoline. The cats pour the liquid on the flames, and yellow-blue plumes shoot up to the sky. Whoops and hollers echo around the parking lot. Sounds like there’s a werehyena or two in the mix.

I need to get these three kids across the parking lot, past the bonfire and the drunken revelers, safely into the van with Deke. But Hannibal isn’t having it. He stands, legs apart, feet planted, seven feet and three hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle.

“Okay, man,” I roll my shoulders. “You want to fight? You got one.”

“You?” Hannibal barks.

“I know, I’m out of your weight class, but we’ll make it work.”

“Too easy,” he sneers. “I fight you and the three.”

“These three have somewhere to be,” I say. I’m backing up a little, putting space between me and the obstacle, hoping the triplets will get the hint. They do. The three move with me. “But I have a friend who will join us. What do you say? Two on one?”

“What friend?”

I point to my pocket. “Can I call him?” I don’t wait for permission. I fish the phone out of my pocket and hit Deke’s number. He answers with a grunt.

“Hostiles.” I stare Hannibal down as I speak. “Initiate the Berlin maneuver.”

“Ten-four.” Deke ends the call.

“What–” Hannibal starts, and I whip out my Glock and shoot out his knees.

“Run,” I shout, over Hannibal’s bellows. I chop a hand through the air to show the direction they should go. “To the van.”

The triplets take off. Bern in the lead, Hutch and Canyon at his heels.

Hannibal is on the pavement, propped on his arms. His sunglasses have fallen off, and when he looks up, his eye area is a mass of scars. Instead of shifter bright, his eyes are black.

I whirl and race to catch up with the triplets.

A bullet won’t stop a shifter for long. We just slowed him down.

Worse, the shot drew the attention of the cats. I careen into one, and the cat shifter hisses.

“‘Scuse me,” I mutter, but there’s a gun in my hand.

“No dogs allowed,” the cat shouts. “Stop him!”

A dozen heads turn, their green eyes like lasers seeking me out. Ahead of me, the triplets thread through bikers. They’re almost to the bonfire, and the crowd is thick.

Canyon slows and looks back.

“No,” I order him. “Keep going.” I point my Glock in the air and fire a warning shot. The cats around me snarl and hunch like they’re about to pounce.

Deke revs the van, and it leaps over a low concrete barrier and heads for the bonfire. Cats scatter. At the last second, Deke hauls the van right and crashes into the line of bikes.

The cats yowl.

“Go, go, go,” I scream to Canyon. His brothers reach the back of the van and dive between the open doors.

Deke shouts something. There are too many bikes and cars in the way for him to get the van closer to us. We have to cross the parking lot to him.

There’s a cheetah in my face. I duck and rush him, plowing like a linebacker into my opponent's middle. Claws rip at my leather jacket. I drop and toss the shifter into a group of his buddies. More snarls.

The cat shifters are closing in.

“Channing,” Canyon shouts. He throws something. Glass shatters and the scent of fire and grain alcohol flares around me. Flames cut into the night.

The cat next to me screeches, making my ears ring. It races past its brethren, its jacket alight.

Where did Canyon get the ingredients to make Molotov cocktails? I punch the closest cheetah and flip him over my shoulder, sending him crashing into his coalition.

Deke’s doing evasive maneuvers in the van. The vehicle has a lot more horsepower than you’d expect, but the cheetahs are swarming it.

“Go,” I holler, waving my arms.

Hutch sticks his head out of the window. “Canyon!”

Canyon’s got his back up against the fire, a second jug of grain alcohol in his hand. He’s caught in a circle of hissing cats.

Shit. This kid. I knew he would be trouble.

Light and shadow lick Canyon’s bare torso. A nearby cat lunges, and he steps back, his boot crunching on glass. His kilt is dangerously close to the flames. One more step back, and he’ll be in the fire.

Two were-leopards leap close. I raise my gun to warn them off.

“Coward,” one hisses. “You don’t bring a gun to a claw fight.”

You do if you’re street smart. That’s where Hannibal made a mistake. He thought I’d act like we were in a fight club match. Outside of the ring, rules don't apply.

They don’t apply in the ring, either, if you don’t care about losing. Or getting disqualified.

A group of shifters join the leopards. “You can’t shoot us all,” one says, and his buddies all cackle, raising a bottle of grain alcohol in mock toast. Werehyenas. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Enough.” I shoot the bottle, then whirl and sprint away, chased by yowling leopards. I reach the line of fallen bikes and haul one up. Normally, I’d need time to hotwire it, but this is a cheetah bike. It’s already been hotwired. I tweak the proper wires, and it roars to life.

The wereleopards leap, too late. I hurtle away, heading towards the bonfire. Cats scream and fly out of my way. I throttle the thing until the front tire leaves the ground and zoom closer. Canyon’s on the opposite side, the firelight painting his bare back. I’ll have to fight through the flocks of shifters to get around the bonfire to him.

Or…

There’s a piece of plywood propped at an angle on this side of the fire. A ramp. That was the werecheetah’s plan for tonight. The dummies were going to jump the fire.

I rev the bike to breakneck speeds and zip up the ramp. The bike and I soar through the air. Heat hits my face–I’m over the fire.

I’m heavier than a werecheetah, and I didn’t get a proper head start. I might not make it. The flames reach up to grab my boots.

“Canyon,” I roar. And I rise, leaping off the bike–shifting into a wolf mid-air.

My body contorts, tightens, and rips out of my jeans and leather jacket. Shreds of my clothes rain onto the bonfire.

The bike crashes down, half in, half out of the fire. Right on top of where Canyon was standing–if he hadn’t moved.

I land on my paws and shoot forward, ducking my wolf head, so I slide between Canyon’s legs and bounce him onto my back. He shouts and falls forward, gripping my white fur. I let him ride me like a toddler riding a miniature pony all the way to the back of the parking lot, heading for my bike.

Behind us, there’s a blast as flames find the crashed bike’s fuel tank and explodes.

Two leopards and hyenas, their faces raw but already healing, leap out in front of me. Canyon throws the remaining Molotov cocktail at their feet, and I dash by.

Once I’m beside my bike, Canyon jumps off, and I shift back to human form. The military makes us wear these tight-fitting suit things that conform to our shift, and for once I'm grateful. It would suck to ride a bike buck-naked.

Hashtag shifter problems.

I will have to ride barefoot. My boots are toast. I shake out my hands. When I leaped from the bike, I landed in glass and some shards got caught in my paws. Shifting back to human form helped to push the glass pieces out of my skin. My feet and palms tingle, signaling that my shifter healing has kicked in.

I throw a leg over my bike and key in a complicated code to start it. No one can hotwire my bike; I have too many fail safes.

“Hop on,” I order. As soon as Canyon scrambles onto the back of the bike, I throttle it forward, away from the commotion.