Red Moon Rising (Strength of the Pack #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

TRISTAN

Tristan loved working the late shift at the diner.

He liked every shift—because, hello, free food—but the late one had a vibe none of the others could match.

It was quieter, sure, but not in a lonely way.

More like people finally had time to breathe, winding down from their long days, open to sitting and talking. They usually wanted to sit and talk.

And when the place started to empty out and the noise dropped low enough for him to hear the soft hiss of the coffee machine or the way his sneakers squeaked across the floor, it felt like the diner had a rhythm only he could hear. Like it was his.

But the best part of the late shift? Leftover cupcakes from Jason’s morning bake. And not just any cupcakes—these were Jason’s cupcakes, which meant the frosting-to-sponge ratio was basically heaven in a paper wrapper. Sweet and sticky works of art.

Once his shift was over, Tristan hung around while Sam put the day’s takings in the safe.

She could take care of herself, but leaving her alone while she counted out piles of bills didn’t sit right with him.

If he knew her routine, others could too.

And when that was done, he headed out, happily clutching a paper bag containing his cupcakes.

The night was still and quiet, and he shivered slightly at the chill in the air.

Fall was here. It would only get colder and darker from now on.

The moon hung large and red in the sky, as if washed with blood, and he shivered again.

This was the twenty-first century, and he didn’t believe all those old shifter superstitions, but there was something about the moon that defied all science.

Because how could a wolf’s coat turn silver in moonlight the way Jesse’s did unless there was truth in the old tales of moonlight and magic?

The scent of white chocolate and raspberry from the bag he was holding brought him back to himself. The moon was red due to the atmospheric scattering of light and nothing else. With a grin at his fanciful imaginings, he headed toward his car, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.

And stopped dead, his wolf bristling inside him. Something was wrong.

A scent… Oh, God, he recognized it. The wolves who’d attacked the ranch.

He had his keys in one hand and phone in the other, calling Bryce as he strode toward his car, his long legs eating up the distance but not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough.

“Hey, Tris—”

“Cale’s pack, they’re here.”

“Where are you?” Bryce’s voice was suddenly urgent.

“Diner. I—”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he turned around. Two shifters were right behind him. The one with long dark hair, whose eyes were narrowed on Tristan, radiated threat. The older one was leaner, and the look on his face was almost as cold and hard.

Bryce’s voice echoed faintly from the phone, tinny and distant, but Tristan’s focus had narrowed to the two figures in front of him. They were close—too close. His wolf was on full alert, ears pinned, teeth bared.

He shifted his stance, unsure whether to bolt or fight, his breathing loud in his ears. The taller one with the long dark hair smiled, slow and menacing.

“Urban’s whelp,” the guy said. It didn’t sound like a compliment.

Tristan’s heart thundered. Matt Urban was his alpha. His family. And these strangers knew who he was.

“Listen,” Tristan tried. “I don’t know what—”

“Shut it.” The dark-haired guy snarled it, and Tristan flinched at the viciousness in his voice. “You’re coming with us.”

Hoping like hell that Bryce was already on his way, Tristan stepped back, weighing his options. He couldn’t lead them to Sam. No way. He feinted toward the lot’s entrance, then wheeled, sprinting for his car.

A weight slammed into his back. He hit the asphalt hard, his head ringing, and tasted blood in his mouth as his phone skittered away from him.

“Little shit,” someone growled.

Pain burst along his ribs as a boot drove into his side.

“Nico, we need to go before Urban shows up.”

Another kick, and stars exploded behind Tristan’s eyes.

Hands grabbed at him, yanked him upright, pulled him away from his phone.

He was being dragged toward a waiting truck, and he fought every step of the way.

He couldn’t win, but maybe he could delay them, because Bryce would come. Bryce always came.

But he was forced into the truck, and it was peeling out onto Main, and Bryce wasn’t there. There was only Tristan and the scent of strange shifters filling his consciousness as dizziness and panic threatened to swallow him. One of them kept a hand clamped around his arm, heavy and unrelenting.

They had the same smell as the wolves who’d forced their way into the ranch house two months ago, wild and aggressive, searching for the Argent. That’s what they called Jesse, not understanding he was so much more than just the color of his coat. They’d left blood and fear in their wake.

Tristan screwed his eyes shut and held still, willing himself not to shake.

COLBY

Colby was halfway across the compound when he heard a vehicle grinding up the hill. He changed course and headed toward the gate. If he wasn’t there to greet Nico on his return, there’d be trouble.

As he walked, he cataloged the sentries at the gate. Jeff was staring hard at the ground, like it might save him, and Hooper had faded into the shadows, hoping to be overlooked. The whole compound seemed to be holding its breath along with Colby, waiting to discover Nico’s mood.

Colby kept his shoulders loose, his hands easy at his sides. He knew better than to show even a flicker of anticipation, either good or bad. Nico always noticed. And Nico didn’t like Colby reacting to anything unless he was the one pulling Colby’s strings.

The truck rattled to a halt, and Nico leapt out, all feral energy. Colby’s heart stuttered even before he saw the grin. The more excited Nico was, the more dangerous he became.

Nico reached into the back seat and dragged someone out—a young shifter, stumbling, blinking through the blood that oozed from a wound in his forehead.

Instead of snarling, full of hate, he looked confused, like he’d just taken a wrong turn somewhere.

He didn’t belong here. He should have run just that bit faster, that bit farther, and gotten away.

Instead, he was glancing around, trying to work out the rules of a game he’d already lost.

Maybe that was the worst part, seeing the way he looked around like he could still make sense of it all, still find the way out. Colby had once thought the same.

Nico shoved the strange shifter at Hooper and Jeff. “Lock him in the brig.”

Colby flinched inwardly. The brig stank of pain and old sweat and hopelessness. He hated it.

Hooper shoved the young shifter toward the outbuilding, and Colby wondered who he was and what he’d done to end up here, like this.

Arms slid around Colby’s waist, and Nico pressed in close, nosing at his neck, a wolf claiming territory. Colby went pliant out of long practice, rolling his head back against Nico’s shoulder, giving him access. It was the only way to stay safe.

But his gaze stayed on the figure stumbling toward the brig. The prisoner glanced back once, and their eyes met. Just for an instant, but long enough.

Long enough for Colby to see the alertness in those hazel eyes, the unwavering belief that this wasn’t the end for him. The determination to fight.

Nico bit Colby’s neck, hard enough to make him flinch. He let his eyes slide closed, shutting out the look in those eyes, shutting out the knowledge of what he’d become. He knew that the strange shifter, for all his youth, wouldn’t give in the way he had.

TRISTAN

Tristan’s head was pounding, and he didn’t think he’d ever been so scared in his life. His wolf was snarling, the way it had been the entire journey, but it also remembered the last time they’d encountered Cale’s pack. Underneath its threat was the urge to run.

As he was dragged out of the jeep and into the clear night air, where he was no longer overpowered by the stink of those shifters, his brain started working. He knew his pack would come for him. What he needed to do was gather as much information as he could before then.

He pretended to be dizzier than he really was, taking the opportunity that bought him to look around, casting short, swift glances from beneath his lashes.

Old wooden buildings were huddled around a big open space, in which a whole load of mud-spattered trucks and jeeps were parked.

It reminded Tristan of survivalist bases he’d seen in zombie movies, with razor wire, floodlights, and the constant hum of a generator.

He counted two shifters at the gate, as well as those who’d been in the jeep with him, dark-haired Nico and the one with a face like a weasel.

Then there was the big one who Nico had draped himself over.

He wasn’t smirking or sneering at Tristan like the others were.

He was just watching. Eyes hollow, like he’d already seen how this ended.

Tristan dropped his gaze quickly, feigning dizziness. Something about that look lodged under his skin and made it prickle with dread. He needed his pack. He needed Bryce.

Bryce had raised him, more or less, since Tristan was fourteen.

Not because they were related—they weren’t—but because Bryce had once dated his mom, and when she’d realized her addiction meant she couldn’t keep Tristan safe, she’d trusted Bryce to do what she couldn’t.

And he had. He always had. Bryce was the reason Tristan had a home.

As they started dragging him, Tristan dug his heels in. He wasn’t going quietly to be locked away somewhere he had no hope of escape.

All his defiance got him was a punch above his kidneys that made him gasp and his eyes water, and laughter from the shifters watching. Outnumbered and knowing it, he still fought, because he was a member of Matt Urban’s pack and he would not give them the satisfaction of giving in.

Five minutes later, every inch of him bruised, throbbing and hurting from the blows that had rained down on him, Tristan lay where he’d been thrown, huddled on a dirty wooden floor. The door slammed shut, a bolt was thrown home, and he was left in darkness.