Her Protective Wolf (Blue River Wolves #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

LIZZY

My heart sinks as the leasing agent peels out of the dirt driveway. My old Chevy Blazer is stuffed with everything I own in this world, and the cabin I’ve rented looks nothing like the picture.

“Rustic” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Tall fir trees surround the red A-frame, whose porch seems as though it might rip right off in a strong breeze. The paint is peeling, it’s missing shingles, and there’s a huge gap in one of the wooden steps.

“Keeping an open mind,” I chant to myself as I approach the cabin that’s going to be my home for the next year.

I didn’t have much time to search for a place to live, and I couldn’t afford an apartment on my own in Denver.

When I expanded my search and found this cabin, it seemed like an answer to all my problems. I signed the lease sight unseen and packed my things.

Seeing the cabin up close, however, it’s obvious the photos I saw online were taken many, many years ago.

Breathing through the knot in my chest that seems to wind itself tighter each day, I climb the creaking wooden steps and fish out the key the leasing agent gave me.

A dank, musty odor washes over me as I step inside the A-frame, and tears claw their way up my throat. Sunlight filters in through the dirty windows, illuminating clouds of floating dust in the air.

The listing described the cabin as “fully furnished,” but I see now that this was a gross exaggeration.

There’s a rickety table with two chairs, one of which is legitimately broken.

A ratty couch with cigarette burns on the arms is shoved up against the sloped wall of the A-frame, and a stained mattress on a metal frame takes up the back corner.

In the center of the living space is an old wood-burning stove. There’s no furnace, which means I’ll have to rely on fires to heat the place. I’ve never split firewood before, but my dad raised me to be the type of girl who can figure things out, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Fuck,” I whisper, staring around at the cabin I just put down first and last month’s rent for.

What have I gotten myself into?

Even with the slightly cheaper rent, I’m going to be scraping by to make my savings last until I can get a second job. My photography business was doing all right in Denver, but Bryce was constantly pressuring me to drop gigs so we could spend more time together.

Looking back, his controlling behavior was a huge red flag, but I’d convinced myself that his wanting me to be at home with him all the time meant that he loved me.

The realization that I’ve been an idiot hits me like a kick to the gut. My dad would be so disappointed in me.

Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out.

Bryce’s name appears at the top of the notification, and anxiety twists my stomach.

I’m sorry, OK?

Please call me, baby.

We can work this out.

“No, we can’t,” I growl at the phone, my hand shaking as I flash back to that horrible night.

I didn’t tell anyone what happened with him. Part of me is ashamed that I ignored all the signs, especially being the daughter of a cop. The other part just didn’t want my friends to see me any differently.

I’m not the kind of girl who ends up with a guy who hurts her.

I should have known better.

I should have left sooner.

I should have —

I grind my back molars together and give myself a shake. There’s no point in dwelling on the “shoulds.”

Looking around my new home, that sinking feeling hits me full force. Wind whistles through cracks between the floor and the walls. Sad, faded curtains frame the filthy windows.

Tentatively, I inch toward the small bathroom opposite the bed and wrinkle my nose at the smell. There’s no shower — only a rusted clawfoot tub — and the toilet is . . .

I shudder. I don’t even want to look.

Backing away, I try to find the silver lining.

The cabin does have its original hardwood floors and exposed rafters that give it a rustic feel.

Blue River is a pretty little town just between Breckenridge and Bristlecone.

The property is secluded with lots of trees. And, most importantly, it’s safe.

So what if my new bathroom is a little gross? Everything is going to work out fine.

But before I can let out a deep exhale, something dark and furry shoots past my ankle with a high-pitched meow.

I jump about a foot in the air and drop my phone, heart racing as I look around for the source of the commotion.

A black cat just shot across my floor and is now perched on my kitchen counter with something small wriggling in its mouth. My heart hammers as a pair of golden eyes lock on mine, and I put a hand to my chest.

“It’s just a cat,” I whisper, trying to calm down. A black cat, but a cat nonetheless.

“Where did you come from?” I croon at the creature, taking a cautious step forward.

The cat stares at me with an expression I can’t decipher before jumping down and depositing something at my feet.

It’s a mouse, and it’s no longer wriggling.

A scream builds in my throat, but I stuff it back down.

I can deal with this, I tell myself. I’ll just set some traps.

Keeping one eye on my ferocious new roommate, I bend down to pick my phone off the floor.

Another text pops up just below the last three.

Where are you? We need to talk.

“No. No. And no,” I mutter, dismissing the notification and shoving my phone back into my pocket.

I can deal with that, too.