Wicked Cowboy Wolf Read online

  She shrugged. “I like to read, if you couldn’t tell from the massive book I nearly clocked you with when you snuck into my bedroom.”

  He grinned. “Funny. I don’t recall you doing much reading then. I think you said you were…what did you call it?” A smirk curved his lips. “Having trouble sleeping?”

  Her cheeks flushed red.

  “Is that what brings you down here tonight, Princess? Trouble sleeping?” he teased.

  “Yes, actually.” She said it with a bit more challenge in her tone than she intended, but that only seemed to amuse him. “Though not in the way you mean.”

  He used the book to gesture to the rows of shelves. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find something that tickles your fancy.”

  Mae caught the entendre as plain as day. A flush rose on her cheeks, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t dare bait him further.

  Ever since their previous encounter had ended on such a low note, she’d attempted to distance herself emotionally. She’d had a glimpse beneath his cynical exterior, and she knew he was capable of passion fiercer than her deepest fantasies, but she wanted more, and experience with the Grey Wolf alphas had taught her better than to push a man like him. If she pushed him, he’d only retreat again.

  And she wasn’t willing to take that risk.

  She might only have a few days with this hardened cowboy, but she intended to make the most of them and reveal the man behind the mask.

  Thankfully, he dropped the subject as she turned back to survey the shelves again.

  “How many of them have you read?” she asked after several moments of silence between them. She glanced in his direction.

  A dark chuckle escaped his lips. “Not as many as I’d like,” he said. “The life of a rogue wolf isn’t so luxurious.” He paused. “At least not for most.”

  Mae wandered over to the closest shelf and examined one of the volumes there. A resource on ranching, which, from the looks of it, dated as far back as the 1700s. “I’ve never thought of reading as a luxury, more of a fundamental right,” she said.

  “Speaks to your privilege.”

  “I’ve never thought of myself as privileged.”

  He shook his head. His Stetson had been cast aside on a nearby armchair. Seeing him without it still seemed strange to her. “You wouldn’t. Your brother and his merry band of Grey Wolf alphas have ensured otherwise.”

  “You make it sound so intentional.” She plucked another book down from the shelf. This one, a compilation and analysis of Greek mythology. She quirked a brow. Interesting literature choices for a cowboy. But what about this man didn’t make him an enigma?

  “Isn’t it?” When she didn’t respond, he propped his book facedown on the table beside him and stalked toward her. “Tell me, Princess. Have you ever been uncertain where you’d rest your head at night? Where your next meal would come from? Hunger, homelessness, greed… They’re all connected.” He stood near her now, looming over her from where he lurked in the shadows. “You have no idea what it’s like to live outside your pack, because they don’t want you to. That would destroy the little deal they have with the Execution Underground. The Grey Wolves get to enjoy their truce with the human hunters, their exemptions, their abundance of resources, all while the Execution Underground turns a blind eye.

  “That deal is what allows the Grey Wolves to fly under the radar, unharmed and protected from the Execution Underground’s human hunters, so long as the Grey Wolves help guard the human civilians the hunters are sworn to protect. Civilians who would loathe all shifters if they knew of our nature. It’s a sellout of our species to humanity.

  “And as if that little agreement wasn’t seedy enough, catering to humans who loathe us for the sake of their protection when they’re the ones who choose to hunt us in the first place, for good measure, why not let both groups blame every mishap between them on the rogue wolves?”

  Mae struggled to draw breath. She knew about the Seven Range Pact’s deal with the human hunters of the Execution Underground. They all did. But she’d never examined it in such a cynical light. The deal had been brokered by her father, long before Maverick had become packmaster, but as the heads of the Seven Range Pact, the Grey Wolves and their allies still enjoyed the fruits.

  The Grey Wolves along with the other shifter clans in the Pact made regular patrols of the geographical regions they inhabited, protecting humans from the likes of their vampire enemies. They were so invested in that protection, in that vendetta against the bloodsuckers, that it was the reason for the escalation of the war they were currently in.

  Had the Grey Wolves not needed to preserve their deal with the Execution Underground, the deaths the vampires had started causing among innocent humans almost a year earlier, while tragic, wouldn’t have made a difference to the pack. It had only been once the Grey Wolves retaliated and the war began that the vampires had begun targeting shifters, and rogue wolves had been caught in the crossfire.

  When she examined it in that light, Mae understood Rogue’s distaste for her pack.

  “Survival,” he continued. “For most of us, that’s all that matters.” The cynical mask he kept in place faltered. “For me, that’s all that mattered. Until I became so powerful they couldn’t ignore me any longer.” He eased away from her. “That’s the only thing that separates me from the rest of them.”

  She saw that now. The way he viewed himself. The underdog. The Prince of the Downtrodden. A vigilante of justice.

  Robin Hood…

  “And the books?” she asked. “How do they play into that?”

  He lifted a single shoulder in a half shrug as though the answer was inconsequential. But to her, it wasn’t, because it was yet another piece in figuring out this complex cowboy.

  “I started collecting them a few years ago when surviving no longer was a day-to-day struggle.”

  Around the same time the Grey Wolves had first started to hear whispers of his name. He’d amassed power and influence in their world so quickly it had nearly made Maverick’s head spin. She’d eavesdropped over the stories among the Grey Wolves’ elite alphas with eager interest.

  “And now?” she prompted.

  “I’d like to think I’ll read them all—someday.” His cerulean gaze circled the room. The color was so blue, like the vast Montana sky just before a storm rolled in.

  Her eyes widened. “All of them?” She tracked his line of sight over the walls of books. There were thousands of them. More than she could ever hope to read in a lifetime, and she considered herself a voracious reader. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as an optimist.”

  “Not an optimist, a pragmatist. I read at least one book a night. Couple that with a shifter’s extended life span, and maybe I’ll have enough time.”

  Her jaw dropped. “A book a night? When do you sleep?”

  Those icy eyes pierced her. “Men like me often find the darkness more restful than sleep, Princess.”

  His words chilled her, reminding her that she’d far from seen the darkest side of this cowboy. Of course a wolf like him would know terrible horrors, things that would likely keep her awake for an eternity. His reputation wasn’t built on sunshine and rainbows. A heavy tension settled between them as they lingered there together, among the books and the dark wood and the soothing scent of dust jackets perfuming the shelves.

  She gestured to the book he’d propped on the table. “What are you reading?”

  He lifted the thin volume and held it up for her to see.

  “The Tempest,” she said.

  “A reread,” he clarified.

  “You like classic plays then.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “What about The Tempest drew you to rereading it?”

  “I suppose I identify with the main character.”

  “So you fancy yourself some sort of heroic Prospero?�
� She’d never considered Prospero to be heroic—more controlling and manipulative—but most performances of the play painted him as a hero.

  Rogue lifted the book from the table side and closed it. “I didn’t say that.”

  She considered him. “If not Prospero, that only leaves…” Her voice trailed off. He identified with Caliban, the hideous, half-human monster Prospero subjugated.

  Before she could push the subject further, he nodded toward the window where the moon shone through, a bright beacon in the otherwise black mountain night. “It’s late, Princess. What’s causing you to lose sleep?”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer without revealing her anxieties. Finally, she settled on “I’m cursed with an excellent memory.”

  “I know that affliction well.”

  An unsavory man like him would. She wasn’t surprised to hear that.

  “Though I wouldn’t imagine a good memory would cause a princess like you to lose sleep,” he added.

  She watched the gentle sway of the pine trees in the night breeze. “The vampires are out for my life. My pack is in danger, and the only man with answers is my brother’s sworn enemy.” She released a long sigh. “The better question is: how do I sleep at night?”

  He paused to consider this. Gesturing to the array of shelves, he asked, “What are you in the mood for?”

  Mae scanned the selection, not certain where to begin. “Something that will help me escape, something that will make me forget.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Or at least something that will put me to sleep.” She smiled.

  Without missing a beat, Rogue strode toward one of the shelves. He hooked his finger on the spine of a particularly old-looking volume and removed it, extending it toward her.

  Mae gripped the book in her hands, running her palm over the old leather cover. It was a book of retellings of classic Greek myths. She opened the book to somewhere in the middle, reading the header on the brown, aged page. “‘Orpheus and Eurydice,’” she read.

  “A love story,” he commented.

  “A tragic one.”

  “All the memorable ones are. Orpheus and Eurydice. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde,” he listed. “They all die tragically at the end, or they may as well when they lose the love of their life. Sentient beings can’t experience love and obsession so complete without tragedy and loss. When you love someone, heartbreak is inevitable.”

  Mae didn’t subscribe to that idea. She believed in romance, in happily ever afters. She might not have experienced her own yet, but she had to believe there was a happily ever after somewhere out there, waiting for her. Otherwise, Jared would have given his life for nothing.

  “That’s a grim view,” she replied.

  “It doesn’t have to be.” He trailed a finger over the spine of another title.

  Though his gaze was focused on the shelf, Mae had the feeling his mind was somewhere else.

  “Some might call it romantic, even though it’s painful.” His Adam’s apple trembled, though his features were stoic, as if he were carved of ice despite the summer warmth. He stared at the hardcover beneath his fingertips. “When you love someone, you give them a piece of yourself. They walk around with your heart in their hands, careless and unprotecting, even if they love you back. They hold a part of you forever, and no matter what you do, you can’t take it back. You can’t reclaim yourself.”

  He trained his gaze on her, and the raw vulnerability there caused a lump to form in Mae’s throat. “There’s always a bit of loss in that,” he said.

  Mae struggled to speak around the empathy that shook her. Why did she gather he spoke from experience?

  The moment passed as quickly as it came. The softness in his gaze dissipated. Stepping closer to her, he reached out and closed the cover of the still-open book in her hands. “It’s late,” he said. His voice was a low grumble, yet gentle. “And tomorrow night won’t be easy. The intel about the bloodsucker’s whereabouts could be muddled, and you’ll have to keep a level head, regardless of what’s said about your packmates and the serum. You should get some rest.” He stepped away from her, crossing back to the other side of the library where his own book waited for him.

  Mae clutched the large hardcover he’d given her to her chest as she headed toward the door. She’d learned better than to push him. But when she reached the exit, she hesitated. Maybe she hadn’t learned her lesson after all, because try as she did to walk away from him, she couldn’t allow this moment to pass.

  She turned toward him. “The children,” she said. “Will, Hope, Noah. Are they yours?”

  * * *

  To say that had been the question he’d been anticipating would be a lie. As Rogue stood there in the dark, the moonlit shadows from the forest shining through the window as passing clouds caused the gnarled limbs of the tree branches to dance across the floorboards, he could have sworn she’d recognized him. Here in the dark moonlight, meeting in secret to share hushed whispers, tucked away and protected from the cruelties of the world. This was their legacy, the nightfall that brought him back to when they were young. Back to a time when it’d been just the two of them. Together. Misfits against the world.

  He released a long sigh as he stepped toward the Chippendale service bar in the corner where an old decanter of whiskey glowed amber beneath the lamplight. He uncapped the decanter and poured himself a glass, pausing only long enough to enjoy the smoky scent as he swirled the glass beneath his nose. He threw back the liquor before he set the glass on the wooden bar top with a thud.

  “No,” he answered as he poured himself another. “No, they’re not mine.”

  “I’m sorry to ask. I just assumed…”

  “No need to apologize, Princess. It’s a reasonable assumption.” He grabbed another empty glass and glanced toward her. “On the rocks?”

  Clearly, she wasn’t going to follow his advice and rest before their dangerous excursion tomorrow. He supposed that made two of them.

  She shook her head. “Neat,” she corrected.

  He gave an appreciative nod. “A cowgirl’s drink.” He poured her a glass and extended it toward her.

  “You forget I spend most of my time with ranchers. Alpha wolves at that. I can hold my own.” She accepted it before taking a slow sip. “If they’re not your children, whose are they?”

  He raised a brow. “Do you find questions of paternity particularly interesting?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s just…” She hesitated. “They mentioned their mother had passed. It sounded as if her death was fairly recent, and considering they’re here, I wondered if…”

  “If she meant anything to me,” he finished.

  He saw right through her. She wanted him, and it was dangerous. Unlike her, he was aware that he was the last man on earth an innocent Grey Wolf female like her should ever want, and he was determined to protect her from himself.

  Even if the torture of that destroyed him in the process.

  Her cheeks flushed red, and she rushed to explain herself. “I didn’t know if maybe she was family or—”

  “I have no family.”

  “Oh.” Mae fell silent as she gazed at the glass in her hands.

  He gathered the distinct impression she was trying hard not to look at him. He should have left it at that, not encouraged the subject further, but before he’d made the decision to continue, he said, “They’re orphans.”

  Mae tore her eyes away from her drink to look at him, the sadness and pity there evident.

  “Their mother was a rogue she-wolf. She was a single mom, without an alpha or a mate to protect her. In our world, much like in the human world, women and children are the most vulnerable to predators. They live like the rest of us. No pack to keep them protected. Since they’re smaller, weaker physically, and more prone to streaks of senseless alpha male violence, when they live off the gr
id like the rest of us and there’s no one to come searching for them, they make unfortunately easy targets. She was a casualty of the vampires’ early trials of the serum. Easy prey. I know her kind. They’re the most frequent victims I find, despite my efforts to protect them.”

  “Efforts to protect them?” Mae muttered as she considered his words. “That’s why you created the rogue houses, as refuges to care for rogue women and children?”

  “Exactly. It’s the only thing I knew how to give them. Rogue wolves aren’t known for freely giving trust, especially not to someone as powerful as me, and even if they did, I’m not an easy man to find. But word eventually gets around. That’s how Daisy found us, among others who’ve sought refuge with me and my men at Black Hollow until they’ve gathered what they need and have gone.” He shook his head. “But I didn’t know the children’s mother. Not personally.”

  Mae pressed onward. “If you didn’t know their mother, how’d they end up in your care?”

  “Contrary to the belief of pack wolves, my role as the Rogue isn’t all mischief and mayhem. To them, I’m a leader, someone to turn to when things go wrong.”

  “Like a packmaster?” That was the same role her brother took among the Grey Wolves.

  “No,” he answered. “Packmasters make decisions for the greater good of the majority, the minority and underdogs be damned. I care about the underdog, the mistreated, the left behind.”

  “The misfits?” she asked.

  The memory connected to that word didn’t escape him.

  If you’re a misfit, I’m a misfit, he’d once whispered to her.

  The words he’d spoken to her so many years ago came to him as easily as if he’d uttered them to her only moments ago.

  He closed his eyes. No. Not him. Not the Rogue. He’d spoken those words as Jared, a fellow Grey Wolf with a life, a family, a future. Not a monster. Not an outcast. Not her brother’s enemy. At least not that he’d known at the time.

  “Precisely,” he answered her. He turned to stare out the window. The moon shone bright.