CHAPTER 1
SUSAN
I open up my front door with a tight, strained smile on my face.
Even if I could have managed to paste a more convincing smile on, the men on my doorstep would know my heart isn’t in it. They’d immediately be able to smell my nerves and my stress.
Because werewolves can do that.
That’s right. Werewolves. Shifters. Men who transform into dangerous animals.
The tall one is a man I know pretty well. Finnigan Cauley. He’s some sort of alpha boss of the territory, one of several, and as alphas go, he’s—
Hang on. Let me back up in case some of this is new information to you. About a year or so ago, werewolves revealed themselves among the population. They’ve been around for as long as humans have, staying nicely hidden just the way they liked. But in our modern age, where everybody has an excellent camera and movie-quality crisp recording options, keeping hidden was a struggle they were starting to lose. So they confirmed their existence, and the world scrambled to accept the reality that bipedal shapeshifting beasts mingle daily with mere mortals.
The werewolves made acceptance pretty easy. They’ve long been policing their own kind to stay hidden, so they know very well how to keep their head down and how to color within the lines enough not to get into any trouble. Rumor has it (and by rumor, I mean the Internet) they’ve got quite the developed setup—as in small private town—along with an evolved hierarchy—as in social ranks and the duties thereof. For example, Cauley, the bigger man on my doorstep, is called something like Marú mok cheerah—it’s hard for me to say if that’s an official title for sure because I’ve only ever heard werewolves whisper it when he’s not around. Wolf Killer, is what someone told me it translated to, but beyond spelling it for me, Marú mac tíre, they wouldn’t say more. And it’s odd, but it’s not uncommon to observe the shifter crowd acting nervous around him, even other alphas. Alphas are the bold type of werewolf that humans are familiar with. Familiar with—and fond of. We pretty much can’t help but be taken with their good looks and charm. At well over six feet tall, Cauley is the embodiment of the mesomorph body type, packed with muscle and not an ounce of fat on him. That seems to be true of werewolves in general. All the ones I’ve met and seen on TV via interviews are handsome, charismatic, tall-looking, and ripped.
So I’m a little taken aback by the werewolf beside him.
I’m five foot six, and the werewolf across from me is maybe an inch taller. He’s hunching, so it’s hard to say. He’s also flinching like someone’s about to hit him.
“Umm,” I start, glancing at Cauley with concern.
“He’s fine,” Cauley says, smiling his million-dollar grin. Jaw shaved smooth, his wheaten-colored hair wiry, thick, and permanently tousled—he’s hot. Dressed in slacks and a tight Under Armour shirt that hides absolutely none of his athletic frame, he could be a movie star he’s so pretty—not a far-fetched notion at all, because a lot of movie stars are werewolves. (Something the world was shocked to learn when werewolves came out.)
Cauley isn’t on the big screen though. Instead, he’s a territory boss, and in his spare time he runs the Pack-owned pub where I work, The Gargled Werewolf. I sort of know what he does at the pub (he’s a problem fixer—everything from dealing with an unruly customer to jumping in to wait tables whenever we need the extra hands).
But what does he do for his territory boss gig? Believe me, I’ve searched the heck out of the Internet to find out what an alpha in a Pack of werewolves does (especially in the last twenty-four hours) but it’s hard to know what to believe. There’s a ton of information posted online that may or may not be true about these creatures of legend come to real life.
Cauley flicks his fingers. “Is it okay if he comes inside? He’ll calm down quicker.”
“Oh,” I say, slapping a hand to my cheek in shock and chagrin. “Yes, come in! Where are my manners? Sorry.”
The as-yet unintroduced man—werewolf—who looks like he wishes he could disappear never raises his gaze. In fact, it looks like he might have his eyes squeezed shut. It’s hard to tell, with the way he’s doing his best to fold in on himself. He’s in a lightweight heather green long-sleeve and some type of black workout pants. His hair is dark brown. So are his beard, eyebrows, and mustache, all of which are very… full. Like… beginning to cover his face full. He’s either very rugged-looking, or he’s seconds away from turning from a man into an animal.
Cauley shoots me a sexy smile. “Relax, Sue.” His grin goes lopsided, which makes my stomach flip. “Trust me, swayt hart. This is going to be fine.”
It takes my brain the tiniest moment to recognize the endearment as ‘sweetheart.’ But my body responds to the endearment the moment it rolls out of his mouth. I should tell you right here that Cauley is Irish.
(If you’re thinking, “But he’s so tall!” that’s pretty much everybody’s first reaction. I’m sure he just loves to keep hearing the short jokes.)
He’s really, really Irish though, and when his accent gets thick, it makes women stupid. It makes women do whatever he tells them to do, makes them agree with whatever he’d like us to agree with—moi included. “Right,” I concur on an exhale.
When the hunched werewolf only crouches lower and shivers, Cauley wraps his hand around the back of the man’s (male’s? How does one refer to a werewolf?) neck and hauls him inside.
Stomach twisting with nerves, I close the door and turn to face them. “Have a seat anywhere you like.” I gesture to my living room, which is off to the right. My townhouse is humble, but clean and well-maintained. There’s one sectional sofa that dominates the space in front of the TV, and I expect the men to take it, but Cauley walks the frightened-looking wolfman into the kitchen on our left, letting the man sag to the floor by the island. His big body knocks the barstools to the side, making screeching noises on the linoleum flooring.
“Is he all right—” I start, worried. Okay, if I’m being honest, I’m quickly shifting from naturally worried to straight up freaked out. I was already nervous about bringing a stranger—let alone a werewolf stranger—into our house; this isn’t helping.
“Awf, for the sweet love of Jaysus,” Cauley murmurs to himself—or to God. “He’ll be fine,” he assures (‘Heel b’fyne!’ is what my ears first hear before my brain can translate), righting the stools and propping the man up before throwing me his patented sex-charged smile. But my eyes hone in on the gleam to Cauley’s teeth. I’d swear, they almost look… sharp. His eyes do too. And for the first time, I feel a little bit unsafe with him.
The absolute besheeshus is scared out of me when Cauley whips his head up, bares his teeth, and turns a hard smile on me. “Susan? Getting scared with a werewolf isn’t a helpful thing. So don’t be scared, okay?”
Fear rips through me, but I get a throttlehold on it, and try for an apologetic grin that I don’t feel and nobody believes. Faintly, I murmur, “Got it. Sorry.”
Cauley gives me an appreciative nod. “This,” he says, squeezing the nape of the now-shivering man, “is Lucan. But everyone calls him Deek. And she,” he says firmly, giving the man a shake that makes me unconsciously hug myself in shock (ironically, almost the same move is made by the werewolf being shaken on the floor), “is Susan Taylor. Say her name.”