“You know what your problem is? You sat on your ass too long. You need to burn off some steam.”
Ryan Sheridan snorted at his traveling companion as he lifted the empty longneck in his hand and waved it in the air. “What do you think I’m doing?” He turned away, setting it on the counter of his RV kitchen with one hand and reached for the fridge with the other. “In fact, I think I’ll have another. See. Problem solved.”
“Hardly, pup.”
Ryan shot a warning glare at Zander before letting the insult and the innuendo behind it slide. He’d taken this final gig because Irvine Tyrone, the man who’d given Ryan his first break as a wrangler in the movie business, had specifically asked for him on this project. It had nothing to do with the noose tightening around his neck at home.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
Ryan shook off that unpleasant thought. “Don’t know what your problem is, Zander, but this works for me.” He rarely indulged in one, let alone more, but damn if the cold brew didn’t taste good after four days on the road. It was also doing a bang-up job cutting through the wall of humid heat that had greeted them upon arrival earlier.
Montana born and bred, Ryan wasn’t used to temperatures this high in May. Besides, the additional booze might help him get a good night’s sleep for a change.
Zander’s growl seemed to vibrate through the patio-hauler’s frame. “Fine, then quit being a cheap bastard and grab me one too.”
Snagging a second one off the shelf, Ryan hip-checked the door closed with a grin. Setting the beverages down, he opened the top-hinged cupboard above the fridge, comforted by the perpetual squeak from the hydraulic hinges. “Fine, but do you think you can manage not get it all over yourself and the floor this time.” He grabbed a bowl and swatted the cabinet door, slamming it shut with a muted bang.
“Bite me.”
Ryan barked out a laugh as he came around to Zander’s side of the surprisingly large island and set the bowl down in front of his one-time mentor. “No thanks. That’s your thing, old man, not mine.” He twisted the top off the beer and poured it into the bowl. “I’ll stick with opposable thumbs over teeth, at least until the next full moon. Then we’ll talk.” He lifted his drink to his lips and took a long satisfying pull.
Zander made quick work of the bowl’s contents then lifted his face and licked the foam from his mouth, missing as much as he got, resulting in several dribbles on the floor. He stretched his muzzle into the closest thing to a grin he could manage in his current form. “Who are you calling old? You’re just jealous because I can kick your puppy ass on all but those three days of the month, and on those…we’re even.”
Ryan picked the dish up and tossed a towel over Zander’s head. “Yeah? We’ll see who’s laughing tomorrow, smart guy. Keep mouthing off and I’ll make you wish I’d brought Gus or Trixie instead.”
Zander grumbled as he shook the towel off and went to work rubbing his face on it. “Yeah right, as if you’d pick one of them over me for this one. Particularly since it’s based on one of those trashy books you think I don’t know about.”
Ryan blamed the heat flushing his face on the thermometer as he yanked the towel away and wiped up the floor, before tossing the soggy mess into the sink. “First, how would you know if they’re trashy; you’ve never read one. Second, I don’t give a shit what you think you know. And finally, why the hell wouldn’t I bring one of them instead of your annoying self?”
“Ha! First, let’s not forget the opposable thumb thing. How the hell would I hold it? And even if I could, I wouldn’t get caught dead reading that sappy crap. Second, you do so give a shit, or you wouldn’t hide them in your nightstand. And finally, because mentally linking with regular wolves like them is like herding ADD toddlers hopped up on caffeine. Doable but fucking exhausting.” He shook his frame and tilted his head. “While I, being of the superior Wulver species, am not only a scintillating conversationalist, I’m also a fabulous actor and much better-looking.”
“Don’t forget modest.” Ryan smirked as he rummaged around in the compartment under the steps leading to the sleeping area. Selecting his favorite whittling knife and a piece of balsa wood that fit nicely in the palm of his hand, he stepped outside, seeking a reprieve from the heat.
“Forfeit! You left the arena. I win!”
“If you say so, though I’m surprised you’re happy with a cheesy default. But whatever.” Ryan grinned. He could practically smell the smoke as Zander mined his brain for a comeback. Confident it would take a while, he stretched to his full height, working the highway miles out of his shoulders, and took a closer look around.
He could see why the production company’s Locations Department picked this spot. Being responsible for the site of every scene as well as places for the cast, various crews, and support teams often meant commuting between multiple sites. In this case, the freight lot they’d rented bordered their wilderness area set so alleviated that problem. All the trailers, equipment, and other structures would be close at hand, and despite being smack dab in the middle of Atlanta, Constitution Lake Park could easily be miles out in the country. At least until the Teamsters arrived later tonight, then a small mobile city, aptly named the circus, would spring up, bringing organized chaos to the serene setting.
Ryan’s fifth wheel was comprised of two separate sections, the main living area up front and a patio section in the back perfect for housing the wolves when they were traveling and on location. The rig also took up thirty-eight feet on its own, so he’d parked it in the far southeast corner, the only spot that would offer him a modicum of privacy once the circus moved in. Noise, however, was another matter, so Ryan figured he might as well take advantage of the peace while he could.
A moist, magnolia-scented breeze filled the air, and Ryan took a deep appreciative breath as he flopped down in his lawn chair. For the next several minutes, he let his fingers and blade seek out the soul hiding inside the wood. Occupying his hands helped him focus on the coming day’s work, allowing him to mentally step through each scene. Tomorrow, the mayhem of filmmaking would start, and with each minute costing the studio thousands of dollars, there would be no time to second-guess his strategy.
A rudimentary shape began to appear under Ryan’s knife as the final rays of the setting sun painted the distant treetops gold.
Irvin had insisted on Ryan’s company, Sheridan Enterprises L.L.C., for this series pilot, because he wanted the real deal opposed to CG on this project, and as the director of photography, he got what he wanted. In this case, him—the wolf whisperer. Ryan grimaced. He wasn’t going to miss that name.
Yeah, but you’ll bloody well miss the rest.
His blade dug deeper than intended and Ryan muttered a curse. Lifting the piece, he tried to figure out a way to fix the scar, and the lie he’d been telling himself developed a crack. He was running out of time. Yeah, and you can’t fix that either, can you?
Ryan dragged in a shuddering breath and flipped to the other side of that broken record. He shouldn’t have to, damn it. It wasn’t as though he didn’t care about his people or didn’t want to be a contributing member of his Clan; he did. But what was being demanded of him had been his brother Ethan’s birthright, not his. Hell, he didn’t even agree with the Council’s protectionist policies.
Ryan unclenched his fingers and flipped the piece and went at it with the knife’s tip, his hand moving faster. As far as he was concerned, his kind should find ways of integrating into the outside world instead of hiding from it in poverty.
After all, he’d found a way to make a good living hiding in plain sight, hadn’t he? And by his choice nearly all the money he made went into his Clan’s coffers, benefiting all of them. Damn it, if Ethan were still around, he wouldn’t be in this mess.
“If you were going to stay out here brooding, the least you could’ve done was open the back ramp. You know I hate these stupid stairs.”
The erratic click of Zander’s nails on the trailer steps stemmed the spinning vinyl argument in Ryan’s mind, but not his frustration over it, and his knife slipped again tearing an irreparable chunk away this time.
The ruined wood and knife hit the ground between Ryan’s feet, and he choked off the urge to holler at the top of his lungs, reducing it to a growl. “This isn’t working.”
“What isn’t? The carving bit—or the running away part?”
Ryan scrubbed his hands down his face then let his arms drop to dangle at the sides of his chair. Tired of being in his head, he answered out loud. “Neither apparently.”
The coarse guard hairs of Zander’s coat felt surprisingly cool as his friend slid under Ryan’s limp fingers and sat down. “I know you’re worried about the whole Alpha-Designate thing, Ryan. You feel trapped. I get it. And for some reason, you have it in that thick head of yours that being second in line means you’re somehow inferior, but trust me, that’s bullshit. Alpha blood will prove, it always does. You can and will do this. You have no other choice.”
“Gee, thanks, buddy. No pressure there.”
“Finally, we agree on something. But that’s not the only thing this is about, is it?”
Ryan squeezed his eyes shut as a fresh wave of bitterness gnawed through the bottom of his stomach. Zander was right. It wasn’t just the forced political career he resented.
“It’s not only about you digging up the guts to do your duty. It’s about Niola, and you throwing yourself a pity party over all of it.”
Ryan mouthed off before his brain gave the go ahead. “What would you know about it? You got to choose your mate, not have one rammed down your throat! And guts, really, you want to go there? Hell, you don’t even have the guts to change anymore!”
Zander’s body tensed and a quiver rippled the fur along his spine. From hurt or anger, Ryan wasn’t sure. A bloated moment of silence, one not even the growing volume of cicada song could penetrate, crowded in on them.
Fuck. Ryan hadn’t just stepped over a line; he’d kicked the shit out of it. By rights, he should be presenting his throat to the other Wulver, letting him take his due. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. He knew better than anyone that Alexander Chaney, after losing his beloved Sofia nearly a decade ago to the same war that had taken Ethan, found it easier to live as Zander, a northern timber wolf, than face life as a man with a gaping hole where his heart had been.
The same hole Ryan had just twisted a burning stick into.
Ryan swallowed his shame and dug his fingers into Zander’s thick undercoat. To his relief his friend didn’t shake it off or snap at him. “Shit. Zander, I—”
“Leave. It. Be.” The mental firewall Zander slammed up on the subject pierced Ryan’s skull, which was far less than he deserved. The increasing buzz in his ears grew nearly unbearable before Zander reached out again. “I know you’ve always wanted what your Aunt Sofia and I shared, but with your thirtieth birthday only weeks away, the odds of that are less than winning the fucking lottery. It’s time you grew up and faced reality, Ryan. What’s ahead for you may not be the life you envisioned, but at least it is life. There are those among us who will take advantage of your weakness if you don’t get a grip. There are still bloodthirsty ways to gain leadership.”
“I know—”
“I’m not through. Then there’s the bonding contract between you and Niola. Again, something you have that others would die for—and have for lack of it.” Zander placed his heavy paw on Ryan’s leg. “Wulverkynn like Niola are beyond rare after the Overseer wars, whelp. True love bonds for young males like you are just a pipe dream now. The sooner you accept that the easier things will be for you.” Zander looked away toward the tree line and glided out from under Ryan’s hand, pausing after a few feet. Without turning his head, he sent his next thoughts wrapped in sympathy. “Sometimes you have to move forward on faith alone or risk missing the hidden happiness that could be yours. Take some time to consider what I’ve said, Ryan. Then call to me if you want company.”
Ryan stared after him until the gray tip of Zander’s bushy tail melted into the black silhouette of the forest. He was right. It was time for Ryan to wake up. He’d already come closer than most ever would to a true mate. The guilt and pain he would never get over clawed at his heart, making it hard to breathe. The unforeseen triangle they’d ended up in had cost him his cousin’s friendship and Arlene her life. Given how well that turned out, what made him think he deserved another chance?
At this point, bonding with Niola Alderick was all that would prevent his descent into insanity—and she hated him as much as he dreaded a lifetime shackled to her. Without the mating bond, at moonrise on his thirtieth birthday, he’d turn full Were and become trapped inside a mindless killing machine. Cognizant of every heinous act but powerless to stop it.
Ryan let his head fall back and lifted his index finger. “Behind door number one—you, unable to touch another while the mate who hates you is free to live as she pleases. Or door number two—be put down like a rabid dog by your own family.”
Yup, Zander had nailed it again. What other choice but the bond contract did he have? Without it, not only would he leave the Clan vulnerable, but he’d die dragging them into disgrace with him. The last time an Alpha blood had been taken by the moon was during the Crusades, and that family still hadn’t regained its seat on the Council nor its honor among the other Clans.
Ryan stared blindly at the stars. He’d spent enough time wishing some other option would present itself. That another heir would miraculously appear, or that Ryan would somehow find his true mate before it was too late.
No more. At least he’d have a mate and live so he could learn to shoulder his responsibilities. What more did he want?
The wolf inside him snapped at the edges of Ryan’s mind and growled.
Everything!