2. Havoc
Havoc
Something is niggling at the back of my mind. Has been for days.
Monster’s in a fucking mood for sure, but that’s not what I’m talking about.
He’s always in a mood.
The bastard wakes up pissed off at the world and usually goes to sleep the same way. Nothing new there.
But this is different.
I haven’t gone to The Joint in a few days. That’s on fucking purpose. Forcing myself to stay away isn’t easy, but what the fuck else am I supposed to do?
Last time we were there, my beast damn near ripped out of me over the fact that Gabriella lied to my face.
I’m fine.
Bullshit.
Gabby isn’t fine.
Something is bothering her.
And she smells...
Fuck.
Not sick.
I’d know sick.
Shifter senses are good for that shit. Fever. Infection. Disease. Blood. Fear. All of it has a scent if you know what you’re looking for.
This isn’t that.
Gabby smells different. And I mean my kind of different.
Supernatural.
At least, I think she does.
The problem is whatever she is, she’s fucking good at hiding it.
What secrets are you keeping, Honey Girl?
The question haunts me day and night.
Is she a normal? Human?
No.
Maybe.
Fuck if I know. Every time I decide I imagined it, I remember the way her scent changed when I asked if she was okay.
The way something inside her seemed to pull back. Like she’s gotten real used to hiding. And Monster noticed it too.
Of course he fucking did.
The bastard notices everything about Gabriella.
Okay, so I know she isn’t just human. Or at least I’m almost sure of it.
But in my world, we don’t ask another supernatural what they are when they clearly don’t want to share.
It’s fucking rude.
More than rude.
It can be dangerous.
Some creatures survive because nobody knows exactly what they are. Some bloodlines stay hidden because humans aren’t the only assholes capable of hunting something different.
So there’s a rule.
Not written.
Not spoken.
But everybody knows it.
You don’t expose another supernatural. You don’t force someone to reveal what they are. You sure as fuck don’t go sniffing around secrets they’re trying to keep buried.
And Gabriella is definitely keeping something buried. Which really fucking bothers me.
It shouldn’t.
But it does.
Why won’t she tell me?
I stop inspecting the length of hose stretched across the gravel and stare at it.
What the fuck?
Why would she tell me?
I’m not her fucking boyfriend.
We ain’t chummy like buddies shooting the shit over a brewski, for fuck’s sake. And we aren’t having sleepovers and doing each other’s hair while she whispers her deepest secrets into my ear.
Though, to be honest, the idea of a sleepover with Gabby gets me hard in all the wrong places.
Just picturing her in my cabin—in my bed, those dark curls spread over my pillow, that soft body tucked against mine, her scent all over my fucking sheets—makes me goddamn feral.
Mine.
“Fuck.”
I yank harder than necessary on the hose.
What the fuck am I thinking?
“Havoc, you finish checking those hose lines for tears?”
Wreck’s shout carries across the entire A-Feral camp.
I give him the finger without looking up.
“Damn, Wolf boy, are you feeling all right?” Justin calls.
I lift my other hand and give him one too.
“Fuck you, Firebreather.”
“Ah.” Justin nods. “There he is.”
“Asshole.”
My temper is always short around the other Alphas on this mountain, and it’s not like I can help it.
Monster is itching for a fight.
Always is.
True Alphas aren’t exactly designed to play nice with other dominant males. Every instinct we have tells us to establish territory. Defend it. Challenge threats. Protect what belongs to us.
Which makes our little arrangement pretty fucking strange when I think about it.
Three True Alphas.
One mountain.
And somehow nobody has killed anybody.
Yet.
Things are even weirder now that we know Justin owns the fucking place.
Not part of it.
Not just the fire station.
He owns it all.
The land.
The cabins.
The mountain beneath our feet.
It’s his Dragon’s fucking treasure.
That revelation should’ve changed everything. I keep waiting for it to.
Waiting for Justin to start acting like the rest of us owe him something.
Waiting for Wreck to decide being our Alpha means he gets to order us around.
Waiting for the whole thing to implode.
It hasn’t yet. Mostly because Justin doesn’t seem to give a shit that we know.
And Wreck? Wreck is proving to be a pretty damn good Alpha. Not that I’m ever telling the furry fucker that.
Maybe it works because he doesn’t want anything from us.
No submission. No ass kissing. No blind obedience.
Wreck doesn’t give a shit whether we call him Alpha. Half the time he looks annoyed when anyone does.
He just... handles shit.
When Justin and I get too close to tearing each other apart, Wreck gets between us.
When one of our beasts runs hot, he knows.
When there’s work to be done, he does more than his share.
And when the shit hits the fan?
We look at him.
Simple as that.
Maybe that’s what a real Alpha is supposed to be. Not some asshole demanding everybody kneel.
A male strong enough that you choose to stand behind him.
Fuck.
If Rafe Maccon could hear me thinking this shit, he’d probably laugh his ass off.
“What’s with them?” Justin remarks and nods towards the sky at a group of ugly as sin fucking birds.
This fucking Dragon is such a whiny bitch sometimes.
“What? You jealous they actually look good flying with their feathery wings, unlike your overgrown lizard ass?”
“What’d you say, you fucking mongrel?”
“Shut up, you two. Havoc, you done yet?”
I snap my teeth, but don’t look at him. Lord knows, I’m not throwing out challenges today.
“I’m taking that as a no,” Wreck rumbles.
“Gimme a fucking second. I’m almost finished!”
The snickering starts immediately.
Then the whispering.
I straighten.
“You two sound like middle school girls, for fuck’s sake.”
“Says the male throwing a tantrum over a hose,” Justin replies.
“I’m checking it.”
“You’ve checked the same ten feet three times.”
My gaze drops.
Huh.
So I have.
“Fuck you.”
“Excellent comeback.”
I glare at him. Justin only grins. Though admittedly, the Dragon is starting to look broody again.
That’s never good news. His kind are secretive as fuck, but I know a few things about Justin.
I know he’s old.
Not elderly-old.
Dragon old.
Which could mean practically anything. I also know he lost a mate a long time ago.
He doesn’t talk about her. And we don’t ask.
Same rule.
But sometimes the grief rolls off him so strong that even Monster agrees to leave him the fuck alone.
I can’t imagine what it took for him to come back from something like that.
To find the one person the Fates made for you and then lose them?
Fuck no.
Lucky for me, I never found mine.
We have.
My hand freezes around the hose.
No.
Monster stretches inside me.
She’s mine.
“Fuck you.”
“What did I do?” Justin asks.
“Not you.”
A beat of silence. Then Wreck groans.
“Is he arguing with the Wolf again?”
“He’s losing too,” Justin says.
“Both of you can eat shit and die.”
I finish the hose inspection just to prove I fucking can, coil the damn thing, and carry it over to the storage rack.
For the next hour, we work. And work helps.
Usually.
We clean Pulaskis and scrape the dried dirt from the heads. Check packs. Refill drinking-water jugs. Inspect nozzles, couplings, and hose clamps. Restock first-aid supplies. Wreck goes through the engine while Justin updates reports from our last call.
Routine.
Maintenance.
The boring shit nobody thinks about when they picture wildfire crews.
But boring keeps you alive.
Equipment failure on a mountain can get somebody killed. And for a while, focusing on the work quiets Monster.
By sunset, the station is clean, gear is packed, and everything is ready for the next call.
I need out.
A drink.
Noise.
Maybe a woman whose scent doesn't make my Wolf lose his fucking mind.
Yeah. That sounds like a plan.
Dick’s Watering Hole waits down in Ember Hollow.
The name is still fucking disgusting, but the whiskey is decent, and sometimes a male needs to get off the mountain before he starts chewing on his coworkers. It’s the same bar Wreck had been headed toward the night he found Gia in the fire.
I shower.
Jeans.
Black T-shirt.
Boots.
Done.
No reason to think too hard about it.
Especially no reason to think about whether Gabriella likes blond hair. Or tattoos. Or—
“Motherfucker.”
Gabby.
“No.”
Monster chuffs.
“I am going for a drink.”
Gabby.
“I’m not going to The Joint.”
Silence.
“Damn straight.”
For once, I fucking win.
Twenty minutes later, I park outside Dick’s. Music pounds through the walls before I even open the door.
Perfect.
It’s loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I walk inside feeling amped and a little bit reckless. I inhale the second I step onto the wood floor.
Beer.
Whiskey.
Sweat.
Perfume.
Humans.
A few supernaturals.
My Wolf sorts through every scent automatically.
Then—it meets me.
Firewood smoke. September mornings.
My entire body locks.
No.
Monster surges so hard my vision flashes gold.
Mine.
“What the fuck?”
I turn toward the bar.
And there she is.
Gabriella fucking Santos. Behind the goddamn bar.
For a second, I honestly think I’m seeing shit.
She’s wearing black jeans that hug every one of those sultry curves and a black shirt cut so low and fitted so damn tight it should be illegal.
Fuck.
My eyes travel before I can stop them.
Full breasts.
Soft belly.
Thick hips and thighs that make my hands itch to find out exactly how they’d feel beneath my palms.
Then there’s all that smooth, golden-brown skin on display above the neckline of her shirt.
Tanned skin.
In fucking October.
My Wolf perks up.
Does she sunbathe?
The thought hits me out of nowhere, and suddenly I’m picturing Gabriella stretched out somewhere beneath the Montana sun, wearing next to nothing while all those lush curves turn warm and golden.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Bad thought.
Really fucking bad thought.
Her dark hair is pulled up off her neck tonight too, leaving all that bare skin exposed from her shoulders to the delicate curve behind her ear.