“No, he’s not Russian.” I shoved the front doors to the resort open, jogging down the wood steps to the gravel drive. “It’s an inside joke.”
John didn’t look amused. “Ivan is a Russian name.”
“He’s from eastern Oregon,” I explained as if that cleared things up. “But he once fought a Siberian tiger.”
“So funny,” John deadpanned as the wolf shifters outside the resort turned our way. Some of the younger Alphas in training sniffed the air with their half-shifted monstrous snouts while other full wolves stuck their tails in the air.
I’d gathered that most of them were scouting and looking for clues as to where they’d taken the females from the various packs. But the producers weren’t complete idiots. Taking the women airborne erased their trackable scents. We needed inside information if w
