1

Aspen

“The 7th annual Mating Season is shaping up to be another cutthroat competition.” Jay Renfro, America’s favorite wolf shifter TV show host, smiled at the camera. “We’ve got the latest rumors for the anticipated Alpha lineup and you’re not going to want to miss–”

Click.

“Papa! I’m home.” I tossed the remote onto the side table next to his ratty and well-loved recliner.

No answer.

I listened for the sounds of water running or him rustling around in the back of our little two-bedroom trailer. The house was quiet. But the door to the workshop outside squeaked on its hinges.

Damn that stubborn old wolf.

After marching across the yellowed and peeling linoleum floor of our little kitchen, I threw open the screen door and stormed through the yard.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” I growled. My fist beat against the plywood door to the workshop, rattling the chain he just locked. The Polaris ATV was parked outside and the scent of gasoline still hung heavy in the air.

Which meant my papa was trying to give me a heart attack today. “If you don’t open this door, I’m taking your chair.”

Muffled curses came from inside the shop as he hobbled himself over and removed the chain. Honey brown eyes not much different from mine stared down at me under the bushy gray eyebrows that matched his beard. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” I squared my shoulders and planted my hands on my hips. My 5’10 height wasn’t short by female human standards, but like most of the male shifters in our pack, my papa was a few inches over six-feet. “You’re not allowed to be running the trapline right now.”

“Don’t come in here and start that shit with me, Aspen.” He leaned on the table as he hopped over to the workbench. The leg of his pants was knotted just below the knee. It was growing back, but too slow for my liking. Wolf shifters healed fast. Still, regrowing an entire limb took time.

Papa turned his back to me. His broad shoulders were hunched with age, but they filled the seams of his green flannel shirt. A beaver carcass lay spread open on the table under the bones and animal furs stretched to dry on the wall.

The stench of death filled the workshop. It was a smell I’d grown up with and could tolerate... barely. My papa didn’t hesitate as he sliced open the rodent, spilling its guts on the table. He was cut from a different cloth. Rougher than most. With a stronger stomach than mine.

But he was still my papa. “You put that beaver down and get your butt inside the house before I call Dr. Greenwood.”

“You’d rat on me.” His jaw dropped in betrayal.

“I sure would.” I pressed my lips into a thin line and tried not to smile. He had a beastly exterior, but my papa was really a teddy bear.

At least to me.

“If I don’t get this sac out, it’s going to rot.”

“Chuck it in the freezer and…” I gagged a little as he yanked the castor glands from the open cavity. Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathed through my mouth. Having wolf senses really sucked when you were trying not to smell something.

“You’re not supposed to be out working. Dr. Greenwood said to stay off your foot and let your leg heal.” I pinched my nose. We weren’t even sure if it’d ever fully grow back, but pushing himself to the limit wasn’t going to do any good.

“I’m not out working.” He flashed a grin over his shoulder. “I’m here at home where the doctor and my granddaughter are holding me hostage.”

Goddess help me. “Then explain the beaver.”

“Must have fell from the sky.” He shrugged.

“Inside. Now.” I growled, pulling out his wheelchair from the corner of the shed.

He sank down onto the chair with a frustrated huff. “This is the thanks I get for working my tail off to put food on the table and money in the bank.”

“First of all, you don’t use banks. You put your money in a tin can.” I grabbed the beaver by the tail and moved it to the deep freezer.

Papa pressed a calloused and blood-stained finger over his lips.

I laughed as I grabbed the bent handles on the wheelchair. “No one is going to hear me.”

Not all the way out here.

We lived on the outskirts of the Nuva Pack territory in Nevada, about as far away from the prison as we could get, in the little singlewide trailer at the end of a dirt road. It was a good location, nestled just below the foothills of the high desert valley where a few streams and wooded area provided the animal life necessary to sustain the traps.

And we didn’t usually eat the meat my papa caught from the trapline unless it was a rough month. That food went to Holton Penitentiary–the maximum-security prison for shifters which was basically the only reason our hillbilly pack was on the map.

“Second, I bring in money too,” I said as I wheeled him through the yard. “You can afford to take a few days off.”

Papa folded his arms across his chest and stared straight ahead. “I already told you to keep it for yourself. I don’t need your money.”

He did. Taxes were due on the trailer soon. The shower had a leak we needed to repair. Dr. Greenwood wasn’t free and the extra consultations cost… literally a leg. But Papa had too much pride to admit that animal furs didn’t fetch the price they used to, especially when Alpha Derek got his share of the cut.

Which made every cent I saved to buy our freedom that much harder to keep.

I parked the chair outside the kitchen door and helped my papa lift it into the house. We really needed to build a ramp, but he refused to consider himself a “lame wolf.” Even though he’d been using the chair since early summer and we were just getting through winter now.

“You turned off my show,” he said as he wheeled himself into the living room.

“It was Mating Season garbage.”

“Mating season?” There was a little gleam in his smile as he looked to me. “Spring will be here before you know it.”

“One month.” I nodded. And three days, four hours.

But who was counting?

Me. I was counting.

I’d been counting since I first went into heat.

Every year in the days leading up to the Worm Moon–the first quarter moon signaling spring–when females went into heat and the males to rut, our wolves took over and the unmated members of the pack were forced to run together in the hopes we’d take a chosen mate.

I’d survived four heats so far. I just needed to make it one last season and freedom awaited. If my wolf didn’t decide on a chosen mate by my fifth heat, I could petition the human government for dual citizenship to get me and my papa the hell away from this pack.

“Maybe this will be the year your wolf finally settles down.” Papa locked his wheelchair and lifted himself, turning to sit on his recliner.

Fat chance. My wolf snorted in my head.

“You know that isn’t what I want.” I forced myself to stand back, to not help him get comfortable. He hated when I fussed over him. And he also hated this conversation. He was stubborn, clinging to this pack, but I was stubborn too.

“I know you haven’t found him yet.” Papa laid back onto his favorite chair with a tired sigh, redirecting the topic to stop us from going there again. “But you’ll change your mind when you meet your mate.”

His eyes got that glossy look they always did when he glanced up at the picture on the wall of my gram before she’d died. Everyone said I looked like her. Same build, lean shoulders but thicker in the hips, with mousey brown hair and a pert nose dotted with freckles. But I got my papa’s and my father’s brown eyes instead of her glacier blue ones.

“We can’t all be lucky enough to find our fated mates.” I laughed, moving the wheelchair back so he could pull out the footrest.

“It didn’t use to be that way.” Papa adjusted his legs just right. “We all used to be so lucky.”

I needed to make dinner but I sat on the armrest of the recliner instead. In truth, I loved hearing about the good old days.

“Back when Alphas didn’t televise choosing their Lunas,” I teased to get him started.

“Oh, that’s just good, cheap entertainment.” He chuckled. “But the Alphas always met in a central location for mating season. It’s the way the world is now with all these packs and the human government and rapid breeding that muddies the chance of finding your fated. Back when I met your gram, she was just over those hills. It was destined for us to bump into each other.”

“That’s not what you told me.” I feigned indignation, placing my hand over my heart. “You said, and I quote, ‘I would have traveled the world chasing her scent, knocked on every door, crossed every pack border, nothing would stop me from finding my fated mate.’”

It was still my favorite love story.

Even if it was only a fairy tale.

He nodded, coughing to clear the emotion from his throat as his eyes misted. “Yep. And I meant it too.”

“I know you did.” I rested my head on his shoulder. He patted my arm, silent for a moment, as we were both lost in our memories. I wish I had more. Ones of Gram. Of my parents. But I was okay living them through Papa’s stories.

“Are you making dinner tonight?” His voice was rough.

I pretended not to hear the sadness in it. “I guess I can cook for you.”

“Better earn your keep.” He grabbed the remote.

I rolled my eyes as I headed to the kitchen.

There was leftover chicken in the fridge that still smelled all right. I chopped potatoes and carrots and set them to boil. By the time I was finished whipping up a quick soup, the news had switched to something other than Mating Season coverage.

Thank the Goddess.

“Supper’s ready,” I called out.

Papa turned the volume down. “Listen, Aspen. I know you want us to leave and I’ve been thinking…”

His eyes widened. The ladle in my hand dropped to the stove and soup splattered everywhere. My brain froze as all other thoughts fled and freewill was replaced with the command.

My wolf growled inside me, having no choice but to obey Alpha Derek as he spoke through the link inside our heads, “Mandatory pack meeting. Now.”