Malcolm could feel his packmates’ eyes on him, the sidelong glances. The uneven ground felt frozen beneath his boots as he led Trixie across the crowded pastures of Wolf Pack Run, her mangy, growling mutt in tow. They breezed out of the main compound, past the mess hall and the training gym, heading out toward the guest cabins. The mountain air was fresh, clear, tinged with the chill of autumn. The temperature would no doubt plummet in the next few days. The fact that they were this far into the season without a true freeze was damn close to a miracle.
The blue snowcapped peaks of the Absarokas loomed in the distance, watching like the eyes he felt tracking their every move. But whether it was Trixie or the dog she was parading around on that hot-pink leash that was earning them so many glances from his packmates, among others, he couldn’t be certain. Whatever it was, Malcolm hated it.
Trixie waved at a few passing shifters as they went, keeping an admirable pace beside him despite her wholly inappropriate footwear. A couple Grey Wolves and then a cougar followed by a black bear and at least one of all the seven shifter species currently present on the ranch. Malcolm quickly stopped counting, each tick of the number inside his head fueling his jealousy.
He knew it wasn’t warranted, but his wolf couldn’t help it. A few of the other shifters had paused at the sight of her, turning to head their way like they would chat and make small talk if given the chance, until they’d caught sight of him by her side, of course.
He tended to have that effect.
With the dual threat of the vampire and Volk that the pack faced, Maverick had called the whole of the Seven Range Pact’s warriors here, making the sprawling ranchlands feel more crowded, less private as of late. And all that had been before they’d potentially added the threat of the Triple S to the mix. The Grey Wolves had a rough series of battles ahead.
Malcolm veered to the right, apparently too close to Dumplin’ for the creature’s comfort. The Rottie snarled at him, nearly snapping his drooling jaws at Malcolm’s boots. Every time he drew near or even looked at the beast from the corner of his eye, the dog primed itself to attack. Hackles raised. Canines bared. Snarling. Malcolm hadn’t had the heart to bare his own lengthened canines and snarl back yet. Maverick’s suggestion toyed in the back of his mind.
One look at his wolf eyes and the dog would likely piss itself, but then Trixie’d be pissed with him. He sighed, reining his frustration in. At least he and Dumplin’ had one thing in common—a drive to protect the saucy little witch.
Even if the dog was confused about how to do the best job of it.
He wasn’t a danger to her.
It’s everyone else, he wanted to growl at the thing.
“Where are we headed?” Trixie finally asked once they’d been strolling for more than a few minutes without so much as a hint of discussion between them.
“The guest cabins. You’ll be lucky if one’s available. You might need to double up with some of the other women. Maverick’s called the whole of the Seven Range Pact to stay here.”
“I figured as much, considering.” She gestured at the other shifters passing them. “I guess it goes without saying you’re letting me stay then?”
“Looks like it,” he grumbled.
“I promise Dumplin’ and I won’t be much trouble.”
“Sure you won’t.” He glanced down toward the beast. The wide brown-and-black face glared up at him, lip curling. A scar slashed across its muzzle, evidence from one too many fights. His own chest looked the same. He knew the feeling. “Why Dumplin’?” he asked.
No one in their right mind would think the dog was anything close to cute.
Trixie shrugged. “I liked the book by the same title. Lots of my girl, Dolly, in it,” Trixie answered.
“You read?” Malcolm didn’t intend for the question to sound nearly as surprised as it did. He’d never imagined Trixie curled up on a Friday night with a book instead of behind the bar.
Trixie cut him a side-glance. “I’m going to take that as a statement of fact and not a question. Of course I read. How do you think I learned to take care of all my plants? My mama never taught me any skill worth using.”
“Mine neither,” he admitted.
Silence fell between them, mutual and comfortable as they walked side by side.
“How do you do it?” Trixie finally asked once they’d ventured a bit farther.
The guest cabins were still but a speck in the distance. But he hadn’t been about to suggest she climb on the back of a horse when she was wearing a miniskirt and heels, and to be honest, a part of him had hoped he’d get to talk with her, find a moment like this.
“Do what?” he asked.
“You know what I mean.” She gestured to one of his packmates wandering by and let out a low, appreciative whistle. She glanced toward him knowingly. “I can see why you hate it here. So many beautiful men and women in one place. Gettin’ any ranchin’ work done must be such a chore for you,” she teased.
Malcolm pawed at the back of his neck. “Who says I hate it here?”
“If you want to lie to me, you’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that, Malcolm.” Malcolm. Not sugar.
He tried not to smile at that but failed. Though if the passing look on one of his packmates’ face was indication, it’d appeared more like a grimace. He frowned.
“There’s a lot of fine-lookin’ men on this ranch. Women too,” Trixie continued, “though the women ain’t my thing, even though I know you can appreciate them.” Trixie cast her eyes toward a particularly handsome male wolf shifter, one of the warriors from the Bozeman subpack. Malcolm couldn’t remember his name, but he’d seen him before. Trixie pointed unabashedly as the wolf passed. “I’ve slept with him. Have you?”
Malcolm growled. He was not doing this. Not here. Not now, but especially not with her.
Trixie ignored his ire. “Don’t be jealous. It’s just a question.”
“I’m not jealous.” The words sounded harsh and, well, exactly like what she’d accused him of. Fuck.
Trixie laughed. “Sure you’re not. Then I guess you don’t mind if I tell you I’ve slept with him, too.” She pointed at a passing black bear. “He was real good.” She smiled up at Malcolm and winked. “Not as good as you though.”
“Trixie,” Malcolm growled in warning.
She gently swatted at his arm. “What? Don’t be such a spoilsport. That’s half the fun of being with someone who’s into both men and women, being able to appreciate people together. You’re telling me you haven’t taken a bite out of some of these fine pieces?”
Malcolm adjusted his Stetson, drawing it lower to block the afternoon sun from his eyes. Sundown came early this time of year. “I think it was you who said you shouldn’t shit where you eat.”
“But you have before. With Bo, I mean. He was handsome, too.” She bumped her hip against his playfully. He tried not to think about how those same hips had felt cupped in his large hands. His tastes had been a bit…singular as of late.
“And how about that cute little Texan?” Trixie rambled on. “What was his name again?”
“Austin, and he and I were only friends.” He tipped his Stetson lower. “And he’s gone now, too. Like Bo.”
That seemed to take the wind out of her sails for a moment. “That’s poor luck, darlin’. Truly.” They continued on in silence for a moment before she nudged an elbow at him, lifting her brows like she knew a secret he didn’t. “But with Blaze, things were different.”
Malcolm scowled. “It’s not—”
“Don’t try to tell me it isn’t like that,” Trixie said, cutting him off. “Maybe not now, but at least at one point. On rare occasions, I catch you givin’ him that same wistful look you give me.”
He didn’t feel half as attracted to Blaze as he was to Trixie, even though he was an equal opportunist when it came to his taste in women and men, but he wasn’t about to confess that fact.
From the way she was staring at him expectantly, Trixie wasn’t letting this go.
Malcolm sighed. “Have you seen him?”
Trixie read the true meaning behind those words in an instant.
Can you blame me?
Trixie smiled, wide and pretty. “Oh, I’ve seen and I’ve appreciated. Only from a distance, mind you.”
“It was a brief interest. Before Bo and never since. Since then, there hasn’t been anyone except…” Malcolm’s voice trailed off. The words he left unspoken hung heavy in the charged air between them.
Except you.
Trixie smiled knowingly.
Malcolm cleared his throat and glanced away. “It was years ago. There’s no interest there for me anymore, other than maybe some nostalgia for a simpler time. He’s hetero. Let me down easy.”
Trixie gave a little shrug again. “His loss then.”
“If you want to call it that.” He didn’t know what possessed him to admit the next phrase that came out of his mouth, but he was saying it before he could stop himself. “Apparently, I have a thing for men and women who like to put on a show.”
Trixie stopped in her tracks, looking at him earnestly. Her heels had sunken into the ground a little bit, like tiny drilling spikes. She cocked her head to the side momentarily, examining him. “Because it draws you into the spotlight a little bit,” she said knowingly, certain in her assessment. “It feels good to be in the light, the heat of someone else’s glow. But it’s also easy to hide behind a person who shines brighter than the sun.”
Malcolm swallowed hard. This conversation was becoming far more intimate than he’d meant for it to. “Is that how you see yourself? Like a star in the darkness?” He wasn’t certain whether the darkness in this analogy was him or the world, but he didn’t really care.
As long as she told him the truth.
That was all he’d ever really wanted from her. Honesty. Something real.
“No, darlin’. Not usually.” She glanced up at him, her amber eyes still caked with mascara, but he willed himself to see past it. To the real woman beneath. Trixie glanced away then. “But when you give me that heated look, it sure is,” she whispered.
To his surprise, she blushed a bit.
Malcolm growled. The warm pink on her cheeks made him think of all the other places he’d made her skin flush with need. He wanted to haul her into his arms, packmates surrounding them be damned. He’d throw her over his shoulder like a caveman if she’d let him, carry her off to one of the pastures, or hell, who cared, and do whatever it took to make her moan again. She was breathtaking when she came, and he wanted to see how many times he could do that for her. He had a feeling she wouldn’t say no to that.
“When you look at me like that”—she nodded to where his eyes had turned molten gold—“it makes me feel like maybe I don’t need to stand on a stage. Maybe the whole show I put on is only for you. Like you’re the only spotlight I need.”
His heart gave a hard thump. Like it knew that she held him in the palm of her hand.
How had he let himself get in this deep this fast?
But hadn’t that always been what he’d feared? Why he’d pushed her away to begin with?
He’d wanted her too much from the very start.
“Is it?” he asked. “Is it enough for you?”
He wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking, but the whole universe seemed to hinge on her answer.
“These days?” She grinned. “Maybe.” She glanced down at the ground with a coy little grin before she started walking again. “We gonna talk about the other night or pretend it didn’t happen, darlin’? It’s up to you.”
“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.” The words felt raw in his throat, too honest. Like he’d been the one laid bare. “But we don’t need to talk about it either. Not yet.”
He wasn’t a man of many words. She knew that. Talking wasn’t his gig. Hell, this was probably the longest conversation he’d had in years. Longer, even.
“Fair enough.” She nodded.
She was a few feet ahead of him now, Dumplin’ obediently keeping pace beside her as they trekked down a slight incline in the landscape. He watched as her heel drove into the ground again exactly as Dumplin’ gave a sudden lurch forward, and then before he could grab her, she slid. Trixie hit the ground hard.
“Shit,” he swore, rushing to her side.
She’d dropped Dumplin’s leash and the beast had turned around, snarling at his quick approach. His eyes flashed to his wolf and he snarled back. Dumplin’ blinked before he growled again. So much for putting the canine in its place.
Ignoring the dog, he turned to Trixie. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” She waved him away. “Just made a fool of myself is all.” She tried to stand, putting weight on her ankle, and winced.
“And twisted an ankle.” Without thinking, Malcolm hooked an arm under her legs and another around her waist before he hauled her into his arms, lifting her with ease. Dumplin’ growled again, but a single, sweet hush-now look from Trixie quieted him. He lay down on the ground, placing a paw over his head like he was hiding, and the woman hadn’t so much as scolded him. Clearly, she’d already won Dumplin’s loyalty, too.
Malcolm turned his attention back toward her. “You never should’ve worn those damn shoes here,” he snarled.
Trixie ignored his protective grumbling. “Look at you. Sweeping me off my feet like Prince Charming.” She threw her arms around his neck and snuggled closer, with a minx-like grin.
Her breasts were pushed flush against his chest, and the scent of her hair wrapped around him. His cock stiffened. If she knew all the things he wanted to do with her, she’d never say that. “I’m no Prince Charming, Trixie.”
“Of course you’re not,” she said a little too quickly. She smiled. “I don’t want you to be.” Her amber eyes seemed to sparkle in the lowering sun. “I thought you told me to keep the shoes,” she teased.
The growl that rumbled from his chest this time was pure arousal. “Only when I’m between your legs,” he demanded. “The rest of the time, when we’re here, you’ll wear boots.”
Trixie faked a little salute. “Yes, sir.”
“If you’re trying to put me off with addressing me as a sir, you’re failing.”
“You like that, huh?” Her arms were back around his neck again. “When I call you ‘sir’?”
Malcolm blew out a long breath. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, carrying her through the pasture and flirting with her for everyone to see like they were a thing. Like there was obviously something between them. “I like a lot of things.”
Things that would make her toes curl, make her let out that adorable eep she’d done back at the bar before. For entirely different reasons.
Trixie nodded her approval. “Sure you do. Men. Women. And apparently bossing me around.”
Malcolm chuckled, low and dark. “I haven’t even begun to get bossy with you.”
Trixie beamed. “That sounds like a promise.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“That’s kind of my thing, Malcolm.” Malcolm again. Not sugar.
He liked his name on her lips, wanted to hear it again. The next time it’d be on a scream of pleasure.
“I thought we were headed out to the guest cabins,” Trixie said, gesturing to the changing scenery around them. They’d headed back in the direction they’d came. Dumplin’ trailing along behind them obediently. Maverick had been right. Maybe she did need to lose the leash.
“We were. But with all the extra shifters we have here, the guest cabins are running low on medical supplies, and that ankle needs to be wrapped.” He hoisted her higher in his arms. “I’m taking you to the bunkhouse.”
“Where you live?” she asked.
He lifted a brow in question.
“Don’t look so surprised. You think I don’t know you’re in charge of the ranch hands? Speaking isn’t the only way of communicating.”
Malcolm blew out a long breath, struggling to keep his strides steady. This woman. He could think of more than one way he wanted to communicate with her. Namely, burying himself so deep inside her, she wouldn’t walk straight for a week—and not thanks to that damn ankle. He’d gladly carry her everywhere. Take care of her. Allow her to rest in his bunk. Cook her breakfast and feed it to her in bed.
Fuck, he was in over his head.
They’d nearly reached the bunkhouse, Dumplin’ following but stopping to snap at the wind occasionally as if he could bite it. Malcolm’s pace was long and quick. Trixie weighed far less in his arms than any of the ranch equipment he was used to lifting, or even his motorcycle. When he’d been younger, his brute strength had made him weird, an oddity in human gym class. But close to human as she may be, Trixie seemed to like it. Hell, even appreciate it from where she was now wrapping her arm around his leather, where his jacket covered his bicep, like she was impressed that she couldn’t fit both hands around him. She didn’t seem to think he was weird. Too large, too intimidating. A killer or brute.
Just brooding. Maybe a little broken. Those parts were true, at least.
He kicked open the bunkhouse door and carried her in. Dumplin’ followed, sniffing the floor like he was part bloodhound, which he wasn’t.
Trixie glanced about, arms still wrapped around Malcolm’s neck like she belonged there. Dark woods, western decor, like the rest of Wolf Pack Run. A card table sat near a small kitchen and a refrigerator, the open space leading into where several rows of messy bunk beds remained. A couple scattered trunks lined the walls. An ugly carpet with a picture of several horses on it covered the floor between all the beds. It’d seen better days and far too much dirt considering they trampled over it every evening after coming in from the pastures.
Trixie was still in his arms. “It’s more communal than I expected.”
“I’m not the only one who lives here.” He carried her to his bunk and set her down on top of it. “So do the other hands.”
“This isn’t your home.” She said it like it was fact rather than a question.
“How can you be so certain?” Dumplin’ had taken up residence right beside Trixie, glaring at Malcolm, but obviously willing to tolerate him now that he’d carried the dog’s master all this way. Malcolm headed to the bathroom to the medicine cabinet, more aware of the absence of Trixie’s warmth against his chest than he wanted to be. “I sleep here, don’t I? Must be home in that case,” he called over his shoulder.
He grabbed a rolled-up Ace bandage and returned to where she lay on his bunk. From the looks of it, she hadn’t hurt herself too badly—at least this time—but she’d need to stay off it for an evening or risk irritating the muscles worse.
Trixie leaned over the side of his lower bunk, petting Dumplin’ affectionately. “A home is more than a place to sleep, and I don’t see any of you here.” She gestured around them. “It’s too western, too country.”
“I’m a rancher,” he answered.
“Not by choice.”
Malcolm stilled, far more exposed than he wanted to be. How could she see straight through him? Like the walls he’d built to protect himself were made of glass and one cut of those amber eyes could make them shatter.
She stared up at him, seeing too much. “Why do you stay here at Wolf Pack Run if you don’t want to? You weren’t born here, so if you hate it, why stay?”
Because I’m a killer. Because that’s all I’ve ever been good for. Because Chicago wasn’t home either. Because I’m not even certain I’d know what a home means.
Malcolm cleared his throat. “It’s complicated.”
“All good stories are.”
Of course she’d think that. What was a bartender but a collector of stories? A priest that delivered absolution in a bottle? “Mine isn’t a good one.”
“Maybe.” Trixie propped herself up on one of her elbows as he sat down beside her. “Or maybe you’re simply not done tellin’ it yet.”
Malcolm took her ankle gently in hand, slowly undoing the strap at her ankle and removing her heel. He unrolled the Ace bandage and began wrapping her foot. “There’s a place here on the ranch that means something to me. It’s not much, but it became important after Bo died.”
It was more than he’d ever thought he’d admit to her, or anyone for that matter.
“Will you take me there?” she whispered.
Malcolm froze. No one had ever asked him something so intimate before. To show them parts of himself he’d never dared bare to the world. Not even Bo.
Malcolm opened his mouth, unsure how he’d answer, but the door to the bunkhouse flew open, and a second later, the cowhands were filing in, all six of them, finished with the day’s work. At the sight of Trixie, more than one pair of eyes lit up in familiarity.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Miles crooned.
“It was a dog this time, but who’s countin’?” Trixie preened, nodding down toward where Dumplin’ was now wagging his tail, panting and friendly.
And to think he’d been pleased the Rottie had been warming up to him. If by warming he meant not attempting to maul his leg.
Malcolm’s lip curled. Traitor.
“Which one?” Miles joked, nodding in Malcolm’s direction.
Trixie and the other hands laughed. Malcolm didn’t. The joke was on him, he supposed. For ever assuming he’d mean anything—to her or to anyone else.
He finished wrapping her foot, tying the bandage with a secure knot. “Try to stay off it till morning,” he grumbled.
“Thanks, sugar.”
Sugar again. Not Malcolm.
The Trixie he was accustomed to was back again.
The one he’d always known would break his heart. He shouldn’t have been surprised, shouldn’t have been hurt by the loss of connection between them, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. He felt everything far too much. More than he ever wanted to.
Trixie was deep in her flirting with the other hands now, his packmates hanging off her every word and batted eyelash. One of the guys, Chance, whipped out a set of playing cards, suggesting poker, and seconds later, Trixie was up, hobbling on the foot he’d told her to stay off only two seconds earlier. She headed over to the card table, all thought of him forgotten.
“Hey, Malcolm, you want us to deal you in?” Miles asked.
“No. I don’t play.” The game still reminded him too much of his stepfather. Those drunken nights spent playing always inevitably ended in the human man beating him, taking out his losses on Malcolm’s body. Being a shifter meant he’d healed quickly from the blows, but that didn’t mean he still didn’t remember the pain. He’d told the other ranchers it wasn’t his game plenty of times before, not that anyone listened.
Miles didn’t even wait for a response before starting to deal seven hands instead of eight. Trixie didn’t so much as spare him a glance. His spotlight sure didn’t feel like enough at the moment. Dumplin’ curled up at Trixie’s feet, sleeping.
Placing his Stetson on the hook near his bed, Malcolm slipped out of the bunkhouse without another word, not bothering to look and see if he was alone. He knew he was.
Outside, the sun had started to set, painting the sky a pale purple. Malcolm wandered toward the trees, stripping out of his clothes before he knelt on all fours to shift. Unless his adrenaline was pumping, he still wasn’t as fast as the other elite warriors, not when it came to this. They all shifted into their true form as if it were as easy as breathing. It had never been for him. Maverick had always said it was because he’d spent so long living like a human, not knowing what he really was, while most of the pack started shifting voluntarily by the time they were five. It was a matter of practice. But here he was, over fifteen years later and still slower than the rest. To him, it was simply another way he didn’t belong.
Beyond explanation, but hurtful all the same.
After a few prolonged moments, he relaxed enough that his shift came. Limbs twisted. Fur sprouted. And he felt the sting of his jaw lengthening, becoming canine-shaped instead of square. He let out a little shivering shake, feeling more himself than he had moments before.
Maybe that was why he never felt at home, because he’d spent so long in skin.
Because his true home was the forest.
Malcolm was running before he’d even decided to, animal instincts taking over. The chill of the autumn night coursed through his fur, ruffling his tail. There was a deer two miles north and he smelled its trail. The musky scent made his mouth water. He followed it by scent, eyes seeing through the darkness in the way only a true predator could. When he was wolf, he didn’t know shame, didn’t feel guilt for his kills. He was simply one with the trees, a part of a greater ecosystem that not only tolerated him but embraced him, needed him.
More than his pack ever would.
By the time he found the deer, the hunger in his belly was gone, replaced instead by an entirely different kind of need, one it’d take more complex thought to fill. But at least the thrill of the chase had cleared his head. The light of the moon overhead soothed him. He’d let the fawn live for tonight.
Making his way back down the mountainside, he didn’t shift back into human form until he was near the bunkhouse again. He could hear the sounds of his packmates inside, of Trixie’s laughter and the roar when she must have bested the men with a particularly good hand.
With her truth abilities, she’d wipe the floor with them.
But Malcolm couldn’t bring himself to be pleased about that fact.
Not when he was always on the outside looking in.
Pulling on his jeans, he padded his way across the pasture, barefoot, heading to the one place he knew was his own. When he reached the pack’s garage, the doors were already open, allowing the moonlight to spill in. The smell of dirty motor oil and mechanical grease filled his nose. Malcolm ducked inside, careful not to step on any stray tools with his bare feet.
Inside, the cool tones of the moonlight cast a pale shadow over the lifts and toolkits. But it was a glowing pair of wolf eyes that caught his attention. Cheyenne, the pack’s mechanic, stared at him through the darkness, silent and knowing. She nodded at him, not feeling the need to greet him. Theirs was a relationship of few words. A mutual understanding between two people who didn’t need to interrupt the silence to understand each other.
He nodded to her and she mimicked the gesture, refusing to meet his gaze. With her, it wasn’t personal. Eye contact was difficult for her, particularly when she was working and focused, so he knew it wasn’t meant to hurt him.
Silently, Malcolm made his way to the back of the garage, the moonlight lighting his path, though his wolf eyes didn’t need it. But when he reached the far corner where his paint shelf and supplies were stored, he started to panic. His heart pounded against his chest as his eyes combed the darkness in search. The old sheet wasn’t there and neither was…
“Chey, where’s—”
“Shhh.” She hushed him like he was a small babe. “It’s right here.” She nodded over to another corner. “I had to move it to get my bench under one of the pack trucks earlier.”
“For a moment, I thought you’d…” His voice trailed off.
She stared at him, not able to anticipate where his sentence was leading.
“That you’d gotten rid of it finally,” he admitted.
Cheyenne quirked her head to the side like she was studying him. “You know I wouldn’t do that to you,” she said softly. “She’s right there.” She pointed toward a sheet in the corner like a ghost. Two wheels stuck out from underneath.
“Thanks.” Malcolm nodded.
Cheyenne smiled shyly, though it didn’t quite meet her eyes. She didn’t bother to ask what he was doing here in the middle of the night, and he didn’t ask her the same. That was how it worked between them. Silent understanding while they worked side by side. It was only now that he realized it had been the same with Trixie while he’d been grieving Bo. But something about the silence between him and Cheyenne was different.
Friendship, not attraction.
The presence of another shifter who knew what it was like to be the outsider.
Malcolm wheeled the old Harley back over to the corner stand where he normally left it, falling into the quiet work of the night as Cheyenne did the same. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the forest, an owl’s hoot, the rustle of leaves, the occasional whistle of the autumn wind. As he took his airbrush and loaded the paints into the canister, the stringent smell of the aerosol singed his nose, contrasting with the sounds of the forest. He had a vague sense that was why he came here each night, for this strange cross-section of worlds that called to both parts of him. Maybe that was why he’d never have a home again. He was too caught between two halves of himself to truly be at peace with either.