Hunter's Moon (The Werewolves of Willow Creek #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Hunter

The paperwork spreads across my desk like an accusation.

There are timber rights disputes, boundary negotiations with the Oak Hollow witches, and a request from Parkerville's mayor about the hiking trails.

I sign the last form with more force than necessary, the pen leaving an indent in the wood beneath.

"You're going to break that desk if you keep at it," Caleb says from the doorway, his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face.

I glance up at my younger brother. "Did you need something?"

"Just checking if you're coming to dinner. Rachel's making her famous lasagna." He steps into my study, his expression sobering. "You've been cooped up in here all day, Hunter. When's the last time you shifted?"

"Three days ago." The admission tastes like failure on my tongue. Three days is too long for any wolf this close to a full moon, but especially for an Alpha. My wolf has been pacing beneath my skin since morning, restless and demanding. "I've been busy."

"You're always busy." Caleb plants his hands on my desk, leaning forward. "That's the problem. Gregory can handle the boundary dispute. Marcus can deal with the timber rights. You don't have to do everything yourself."

I want to argue, but the truth is my wolf agrees with him.

The creature inside me has been clawing for release all day, making my temper short and my patience thin.

During this afternoon's council meeting, I'd nearly growled at Arthur when he suggested—again—that I needed to find a mate and produce an heir.

"The pack needs?—"

"The pack needs their Alpha to stay sane," Caleb interrupts. "Go run. Clear your head. Everything else can wait until tomorrow."

He's right, though I hate admitting it. The weight of leadership has been particularly heavy lately.

Marcus has been questioning my decisions more openly, his nephew Garrett following his lead like a loyal shadow.

There's unrest in the pack, a restlessness I can't quite pinpoint.

Some of the elders whisper about the old ways, about keeping ourselves separate from the humans in Parkerville and the witches in Oak Hollow.

And then there's the matter Gregory brought up this morning. Strange scents in the territory's northern section, evidence of a lone wolf passing through. A rogue. We haven't had one of those in years.

"Fine." I push back from the desk, already feeling my wolf surge forward in anticipation. "Tell Rachel I'll take a rain check on the lasagna."

Caleb grins. "That's what I thought. Don't stay out all night."

"I'm the Alpha. I'll stay out as long as I damn well please."

His laugh follows me as I leave the house, heading for the tree line behind the property. The sun sits low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Twilight. The perfect time for a run.

I strip quickly once I'm far enough into the forest, folding my clothes and tucking them behind a familiar oak tree.

The air has a bite to it, autumn settling into the mountains with its usual crisp authority.

I take a deep breath, drawing in the scents of pine and decay, earth and moss, the wild green smell of the forest that's been my home for all thirty-two years of my life.

My wolf surges forward, eager and impatient. I let him come.

The shift ripples through me. Not painful, never painful, but intense. Bones crack and reform, muscles stretch and strengthen, my senses sharpening to supernatural clarity. In seconds, I'm on four paws instead of two feet, my reddish-gray fur thick against the cooling air.

My paws hit the forest floor. It's covered in moss and fallen leaves that crumble into dust under my weight. The crisp fall air rushes all around me as I run, stroking my thick fur like the caress I didn't know I'd been craving.

The moon isn't quite full and has yet to rise in the night sky, but my wolf couldn't wait any longer. The trees cast their long shadows in the twilight as I race away from my home. Away from the responsibility as the Alpha of the Willow Creek Wolves.

Freedom. This is what I needed.

I run hard and fast, letting my wolf take control.

He knows these woods better than any map could show, every deer trail and rabbit warren, every creek and clearing.

The forest is alive around me. The rustle of a possum in the underbrush.

The flutter of wings as an owl settles into its roost. The distant yip of coyotes on the western ridge.

This land is mine to protect. My pack's territory stretches for a hundred square miles, a patchwork of dense forest and rocky outcroppings, swift creeks and hidden meadows. Every inch of it calls to my wolf, singing through my blood with a primal rightness.

I'm nearly five miles from home when something makes my hackles rise. A sudden shift in the air, a scent that doesn't belong.

I come to a stop with a skid, sliding through a pile of oak leaves.

I raise my head and take a deep breath in, the air carrying with it all sorts of information about my surroundings.

Mushrooms about to release their spores, the carcass of a small bird a few yards to my right, the sweet scent of overripe apples from an old abandoned orchard, and the scent of something I wasn't expecting.

Human. She’s female and she’s close.

My wolf's interest sharpens immediately. Hikers didn't often venture this far into the mountain so late in the day. Especially not this late in the season when the temperatures dropped quickly and the weather was always unpredictable.

But there's something else beneath the human scent. Something that makes my wolf's protective instincts flare. She's alone. Vulnerable. And the sun is nearly down.

Adjusting my path, I follow the scent, curious to see for myself who wandered this close to my pack's territory.

The terrain slopes downward, rocky and treacherous in the fading light. I move carefully, silently, my paws finding purchase on stones slick with moss. The sound of running water grows louder. Pebble Creek, one of the many waterways that cuts through our territory.

And there she is.

She's young—mid-twenties, I'd guess—slender but clearly in good shape from the way she navigates the rocky descent to the creek bed.

Long auburn hair cascades down her back in gentle waves, catching the last rays of sunlight like copper.

She's dressed practically in a long-sleeve shirt, light jacket, khaki pants, and a pair of low hiking boots that have seen better days.

She moves with purpose, not the aimless wandering of a lost hiker. There's a bright orange messenger bag slung across her body, a white paw print visible on its side, and she carries herself like someone comfortable in the wilderness.

She reaches the creek and crouches at its edge, pulling something from her bag. Glass vials, I realize, as she begins carefully collecting water samples. A researcher, then. But researching what?

My wolf moves closer, drawn by curiosity and something else I can't quite name.

She hasn't noticed me yet, too focused on her work.

I watch as she adjusts her position, her boot slipping slightly on the wet rocks.

She catches herself with the grace of practice, muttering something under her breath I can't quite catch.

When she turns at the sound of a twig breaking under my paw, I make out a flash of bright green eyes. They're striking even from this distance. The color of new leaves in spring, bright and intelligent and full of focused determination.

She doesn't see me. I'm not surprised. It takes a wolf or other predator to detect someone like me in my natural habitat. Even a fellow werewolf would have a hard time tracking my movements in the low light of the hour. And I'm standing perfectly still, caught as if in a spell by the sight of her.

She's beautiful. The thought strikes me with unexpected force.

Not just beautiful, but captivating in a way that has nothing to do with mere physical attraction.

There's something about her. Something in the intent focus of her expression and the complete lack of fear as she works alone in the wilderness at dusk.

My wolf likes her. More than likes. He's fascinated, drawn to her with an intensity that should worry me but somehow doesn't.

I barely catch another glimpse of the woman, crouched down by the water, when something much more concerning grabs my attention. The scent of another wolf. Not any wolf. Another of my kind, but not of my pack. A stranger and a threat.

The rogue.

My hackles rise and it takes every ounce of self-control I have to keep from growling and giving away my presence.

I slow my heartbeat and focus all my attention on the supernatural senses my wolf possesses.

The woman is oblivious to the danger, still carefully labeling her samples.

I hear her dip something into the water of the stream below.

The splashes are almost imperceptible, as is the clanking of something metal against rock.

But the faint sound of soft footsteps on the forest floor directs my attention to the thicket of trees behind her. There. Moving through the underbrush with predatory grace.

I notice the wolf long before she sees him.

He's impressive, I'll give him that. Not an alpha, but a large rogue with darker coloring than most of my wolves.

His fur is sleek and well-maintained despite his obvious status as a loner, his muscles rippling beneath his coat.

This is no starving outcast. This wolf is strong, healthy, and therefore unpredictable.

He emerges onto a rock outcropping overlooking the stream, his position giving him a clear view of the woman below. His yellow eyes are fixed on her with an intensity that makes my blood run cold.

He growls, low and threatening.

The woman's head snaps up. Her eyes widen as she spots him. A small gasp escapes her lips.