Claimed By The Lord Of The Pack

2

1

BRYN

I arched my back off the mattress as pleasure bloomed from my core. All around me was darkness, but I had no fear. The bed beneath me cushioned my body as I pressed into it. Further south, a man was buried between my legs, his silky locks brushing across my inner thighs. His tongue lapped into me, each stroke eliciting a moan and a shiver. My heart pounded hard and fast against my ribcage, and my breaths were shallow and quick.

He held my legs in place—his calloused hands deliciously rough across my smooth skin. I couldn’t move away from that wicked mouth even if I wanted to. I cursed under my breath and reached down to run my fingers through his soft hair. He growled under my touch, the reverberations of his voice sending a fresh wave of shivering ecstasy through my body.

His tongue dipped deeper, and heat flared through my body. I gripped his hair tighter and looked down, desperate to see him. The man—who devoured my p***y like it was his last meal on earth—was shrouded in darkness. And then he glanced up at me, and I saw his eyes, shining bright green. I bit my lip, transfixed by the only points of light in the pitch black.

His lips found my c**t, and I jerked back onto the bed with a cry. I released his hair and ran my hands slowly over my stomach and up my chest. I gripped my breasts, pinching my n*****s between my fingers. Below me, the man groaned. Those eyes were watching me, luminous with intensity.

I ran my fingers over my breasts again, more slowly this time. His hands tightened around my waist, and he pressed his face more firmly into me. One of his hands released me to slide smoothly down my leg until it reached my opening. He easily slipped a finger inside me, curling it, pressing it against that oh-so-coveted spot. I groaned, pressure mounting within me, until—

I woke with a gasp. I was no longer in that dark room. I was in my own—the familiar pinewood planks greeted me as I sat up. I sighed, pushing my hair off my damp forehead. Though my heart still beat the rhythm of desire, I was alone in the cool semi-darkness of my bedroom.

Flopping back on my bed, I let out a groan—now of frustration rather than lust. This was far from the first time I’d dreamt of that dark stranger, but I never stuck around long enough to finish or, hell, to even see the face of the man who occupied my nighttime fantasies.

These dreams weren’t always s****l; sometimes, I would dream I was deep in the woods, surrounded by darkness and trees. As I walked barefoot over the warm earth, I sensed something stalking toward me, but I never felt afraid. When I turned, I would always find the purest green eyes staring back at me with desire and need. Every time I tried to walk over to him, to reach for him, I would wake up.

And now, for the umpteenth time, I was left with a fading lust and the strong desire to hose myself off. I glanced at the clock on the wall across from my bed and found that I still had an hour before dawn. If there was any silver lining to that frequent fantasy, it was that it normally woke me up ahead of schedule.

I sighed and threw my legs over the side of the bed. It was my week to help make breakfast for the pack, so I needed an early start. I took a cool shower, scrubbing away the moisture between my legs, and brushed my teeth. Then I ran a comb through my long, curly chestnut-brown hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. My room was spartan, containing only my bed, dresser, and desk—the only spot of color came from the dried wildflowers I’d set up in glass jars on the dresser. My room, Mom’s garden, and the magical clearing full of wildflowers in the forest near our cabin were the only places I felt safe or at peace. The rest of the village was more like a prison.

I went to my dresser and found a pair of loose, black cotton pants and a long-sleeved teal shirt with a hole in the seam at the armpit. I’d need to repair that when I had the chance, but it wasn’t noticeable, so for now, it was fine.

The final pieces of my outfit (such as it was) were a pair of mismatched socks, black boots, a slouchy hat, and thick gloves. I grabbed a jacket from the hook on the back of my door. It was nearing the beginning of summer in the Kaniksu National Forest, but the morning temperature was often around forty degrees Fahrenheit. Because I was human, I wasn’t as tolerant of the cold as the wolves in the pack.

Dressed, I headed down the short staircase to the kitchen, where Mom was making herself a cup of tea—mint, from the smell of it. Mom was one of the oldest members of the Kings’ pack, but due to the brightness of her eyes and the effortless grace of her movements, she didn’t look it. Her long, slate-gray hair with white at the temples, the laugh lines around her mouth and faint crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, and the endlessly deep chocolate brown of her eyes—these were the only indications of her age.

“Dreaming again?” she asked.

I stopped in my tracks, my face warming. Oh no. She didn’t hear me, did she?

“What’s with that face?” She chuckled. “I ask because you look like you woke up in the middle of something intense.”

“O-oh. Yeah. I had one of those dreams again.”

“Ah, the man with the haunting eyes?”

I nodded. I elected to leave the s****l part out of my description, though I couldn’t help the slight warmth that returned to my cheeks. Thankfully, Mom didn’t seem to notice.

She moved with the grace of a dancer as she grabbed the honey jar from the counter. As we lived on the outskirts of the pack in our small house, honey was one of the few indulgences we could afford. The tea, however, was something we had in abundance thanks to our little herb garden in the kitchen window. The small garden included lemon verbena, thyme, rosemary, and basil.

As Mom let the honey drip into her mug, she said, “Have you ever tried speaking to the man in your dreams?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have much of a voice in them.” If you exclude the moaning, I added silently.

“Mm.” She brought the mug to her lips, downing what must’ve been half of her tea in just a few swallows. “I think your dreams are a sign of things to come.”

I resisted the urge to sigh. How often had my mom tried to convince me that I had a psychic connection to the green-eyed man? Too many to count. “Like a premonition?”

She inclined her head. “Of sorts.”

“Mom…you already know how I feel about that mystical stuff. I understand respecting the land and giving back to the community, but dreams?” I shook my head. I would never say this out loud because it would hurt her feelings, but if magic was real—if I had any connection to it—why did it allow me to feel so empty inside? Why didn’t I have any friends of my own and not just my mom in my corner?

Mom shrugged. “You should open your heart to this mystical stuff more often, love.” She took another long drink of tea and set the mostly empty cup in the sink. “Are you headed to the dining hall to make breakfast?”

“Yeah. Are you ready to go?”

“Just let me put on my shoes.”

Despite the strange start to the day, I smiled as Mom pulled on her boots. She always made things easier. We stepped outside to the cool, blue morning. The surrounding trees and cabins looked like shadowy sentinels against the dark sapphire sky. As a hot-blooded shifter, Mom wore cotton pants, a wrapped tunic, and nothing else. Cold temperatures didn’t bother shifters, which only served to make me stand out even more in my multiple layers. But today, I didn’t dwell on our differences too much as a thought occurred to me.

“By the way, Mom, how are the new peppers doing?”

“Really well, actually. I want you to look at them when you have the chance.”

I grinned. Though Mom knew just about all there was to know about gardening, she often asked me for a second opinion because of my “natural affinity for the soil,” as she liked to call it. The only parts of my life that weren’t exceedingly difficult were those I shared with her. Especially gardening.

The best part about the community garden was feeling fresh, cool dirt on my hands and talking to my mom. Peppers were a new addition to the garden, and I felt exceedingly pleased that they were thriving. Gardening came so easily to me—it was the only thing I was any good at.

The dining hall was constructed entirely from wide pinewood planks. The floors, walls, ceiling, tables, and benches were all pine. The whole building already smelled savory and sweet. Mom and I stamped our feet on the rug by the door. With the morning dew off our boots, we walked toward the back of the dining hall to the kitchen.

We exchanged brief pleasantries with those already in the kitchen—familiar faces from other houses who shared the kitchen duty with us that morning. I glanced at Mom. The others might have stayed quiet around me because of my low status, but Mom’s presence encouraged the others to be nice to me. Her status as one of the oldest members of the pack, and as someone who helped those who were sick without expecting anything in return, inspired respect throughout the pack and even adoration in some. Of course, that deference didn’t extend to me.

Breakfast—oatmeal, bacon, scrambled eggs, and wild berry jam—had already been cooked, so Mom and I took our spots among the others where plates and bowls were stacked. We just needed to plate the breakfast. I enjoyed cooking and even liked washing dishes—something about being surrounded by food or burying my hands in warm, soapy water relaxed me—but I didn’t so much enjoy being visible like this. Serving breakfast was fine but feeling the constant need to duck my head and avoid eye contact with the pack was stressful.

As everyone began working, murmured conversation started up around us. Though we didn’t join in, the chatter added some intrigue to what would otherwise be a monotonous task. I caught murmurings of, “Such a shame about Gregor—” “—will other packs try to move in on us while he’s sick?” “How many of us would even miss that old—” and “—at least when he finally kicks the bucket, the funeral will get me out of laundry duty.” The latter two comments were met with harsh shushing. No one wanted to speak out of turn too loudly, or they would face the wrath of Troy or one of his goons.

Despite the mixed responses to the news of the Alpha’s declining health, the general mood in the mess hall was somber and quiet. I zoned out as the conversation continued, losing myself in the mindless motions of filling bowls with oatmeal. Occasionally, a pup I knew would skip up to me and smile as I gave them food. It didn’t matter how poorly the other wolves treated me or how exhausted I was, there was always a smile where pups were concerned.

But when there weren’t children around to brighten my day a little, I allowed myself to zone out. As the dining hall faded to the background, I started thinking about the pack.

The Kings were a large, wealthy pack whose territory ran from the borders of the Kaniksu and Kootenai National Forests in Montana as low as Sandpoint and moved west across the Idaho panhandle and Kootenai River. The territory ended right along the border with Washington. The Kings had over five hundred homes and families and powered their compound with solar-powered electricity. They were one of the lucky packs with plumbing and clean running water at their disposal.

Every family rotated through shared tasks for the pack—cleaning, cooking, preparing for ceremonies, and maintenance. Some members had a specialty they contributed to regularly, like healing, teaching, or hunting. Due to this dynamic, wolves operated as a family—everyone looked out for each other. Though the women in the pack weren’t allowed to take up positions that men held and were raised to prioritize their beauty so they could settle down with a mate. I hated the way the pack treated women like objects and prizes to be won and lusted after.