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  Dark Wolf

  Claimed by Wolves #3

  Callie Rose

  Copyright © 2020 by Callie Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Contents

  1. Sable

  2. Sable

  3. Ridge

  4. Sable

  5. Dare

  6. Sable

  7. Sable

  8. Sable

  9. Archer

  10. Sable

  11. Sable

  12. Sable

  13. Trystan

  14. Sable

  15. Sable

  16. Sable

  17. Sable

  18. Ridge

  19. Sable

  20. Sable

  21. Trystan

  22. Sable

  23. Sable

  24. Dare

  25. Sable

  26. Sable

  27. Archer

  28. Sable

  Books by Callie Rose

  1

  Sable

  I’ve never buried a body before.

  Most people haven’t, I’m sure. Most people don’t ever find themselves in a position to aid and abet a murder, and I definitely never thought I’d be in the latter camp. I can hardly bring myself to crush a spider, even one that’s taken up residence in my room.

  But it’s not quite midnight, and here I am, standing over my uncle’s dead body while two massive wolves dig a grave in the woods. It’s only one more strange puzzle piece in my new life as a hybrid witch-slash-wolf shifter.

  Hanging in there? Archer asks through mind-speak, his voice startling me as it cuts into my thoughts.

  I glance across my uncle's body at the blond wolf sitting regally on the soft grass opposite me. Archer looks beautiful, almost otherworldly, with his pale fur surrounded by the pitch black of the woods around him. His pointed ears are perked as if he’s listening to the forest, and I know he’s probably monitoring for intruders even as he waits for me to respond. His green eyes study me as if he’s looking for any hint that I’m coming unglued.

  His concern isn’t exactly unwarranted. That’s probably exactly what I would’ve done three weeks ago.

  But I’m stronger now. Mostly.

  I’m great, I tell him with more confidence than I feel.

  Archer’s ears twitch, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. It occurs to me that it’s a lot harder to fib through mind-speak—or maybe it’s just the mate bond. Either way, I feel like he’s got a pretty good idea of how I’m feeling right now, and he knows “great” isn’t even close to the right word for it.

  Shaking out my fur, I pace a couple steps toward Clint’s bloody head. Trystan’s powerful jaws damn near collapsed Clint’s throat, leaving a bloody, mangled mess that should turn my stomach but doesn’t. My wolf has a stronger constitution than me.

  I’m glad Clint’s gone, I admit. Which makes me feel pretty shitty, if we’re being honest. Am I that cold that I don’t care a man is dead?

  Don’t feel shitty, Archer replies, letting out a snuffle. Clint deserved what he got. The moment he tried to attack us in that sneaky, underhanded way, he signed his own death certificate. After he… after how he treated you? The things he did to you? He didn’t deserve to live.

  I smile at Archer, thankful to always have him near me, calming me and piecing me back together. Although I’m not sure the way I’ve twisted my face even looks like a smile, considering I’m all wolf teeth and lolling tongue, and none of my parts operate seamlessly yet. I still have to get used to this whole shifter thing, including recognizing things like smiles and emotions on my men’s faces.

  How he abused me, I correct him. It’s okay. We can call it what it was. He abused me.

  He’ll never lay a hand on you again. It’s over now. I can feel the anger underneath Archer’s words, even though I can tell he’s trying to comfort me. I have a feeling if Clint weren’t already dead, each of my men would be happy to tear his throat out just like Trystan did.

  Almost, I agree, then glance over at Dare and Ridge. It won’t be over until we have a grave, and we can cover Clint in six feet of soil.

  Ridge’s wolf is long and wiry, full of hidden strength beneath his rust-colored fur. His massive paws dig expertly at the ground next to Dare’s upper body. Dare, a big, bulky black wolf, is half in the hole, his tail in the air and his head invisible beneath the edge of the grave as he kicks dirt up and out like a dog in a Saturday morning cartoon. I catch a glimpse of Trystan prowling the perimeter of the woods—a flash of chocolate brown fur and turquoise eyes that glow in the dark.

  I have a feeling all four of my mates have buried bodies before.

  My senses are in total overdrive. In my wolf form, everything is sharper, brighter, louder. The blades of grass under my paws are abrasive, and the scratch-scratch-scratch of Dare and Ridge’s claws in the dirt sound like gunshots. In the darkest part of the forest, I shouldn’t be able to make out Trystan’s shadowy form slinking around on watch, but I can. I can see him and hear him. All of it is almost too much to handle all at once, and I have to fight the urge to lie down and close my eyes.

  I do the next best thing and lower my gaze so that I can’t see all the movement around us. Looking back down at my uncle’s body, I’m surprised—and a little bit horrified—to feel a tiny twinge of sadness.

  Maybe I’m not being truthful with myself, I think, realizing as I do that I “spoke” the thought in my head to Archer.

  He cocks his head at me. How so?

  I feel kind of sad for him. He was my family, you know? I’m glad he can’t hurt me anymore, but it still feels bittersweet. The last of my family. Gone.

  I know now, of course, that the dead man at my feet isn’t even my uncle, but there’s still a disconnect in my head, something that mourns the loss of the only family I ever knew, as screwed up as that family was.

  That’s understandable, Archer says gently.

  Is it though?

  But I keep that thought to myself. Clint treated me horribly while I lived with him, and I haven’t forgotten any of that. I remember all of the “accidents.” All the cuts and bruises and torture. All the emotional manipulation. He doesn’t deserve even a scrap of my pity. I was less than a person to him, and I never knew why. Not until tonight, when I found out the truth.

  I wasn’t a person to Clint—I was an experiment.

  My fake uncle obviously had a purpose in creating me. Before he died, he made it sound like no other witch and wolf hybrid had ever been born before I was, and he had plans for me. It seems clearer now that his torture sessions were purposeful too. When he carved into my skin or pushed me down the stairs or just found any way possible to hurt me, it’s obvious he was trying to force my witch or wolf side to manifest.

  It makes sense, in a sick and fucked up way, because I know that strong emotions make my magic come out. Strong emotions finally brought out my wolf too, when I thought my mates were in danger of being attacked.

  Thinking back, I can see how Clint’s abuse got worse as I got older, as he channeled his anger over the fact that neither side had manifested into hurting me. The more my two natures refused to reveal themselves, the more furious he got. He kept me alive to see if they would finally
materialize, but he considered me a waste of his time, a failure, because neither side appeared like he expected them to.

  I wish he’d died without learning his plans had worked.

  As if he can sense the swirl of thoughts in my head, Archer stands and pads silently around Clint’s lifeless body to come sit beside me. He bumps into me with his powerful shoulder, then leans in and nuzzles me. Hey. Talk to me. This isn’t just because he’s dead, is it?

  I take a deep breath and let it out through my snout. No. It’s not. He… bred me, Archer. He made me. He took a witch and a wolf shifter and, I don’t know, forced them to mate? I am the way I am because of Clint. He deliberately created me to use me as a weapon against the wolves. Lowering my gaze to my white paws, I add, I shouldn’t even exist.

  I, for one, am glad you do, Archer says firmly. Warmth radiates through his voice. You’re my mate, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you.

  I glance up at him but don’t reply. I’m not sure if wolves can cry, but I’m on the verge of it anyway.

  His green gaze doesn’t waver as he goes on. Secondly, even though his intention was to weaponize you or use you as some sort of tool in his master plan, you have complete control of your destiny. He’s gone where he can’t hurt you or control you anymore. You are in charge. Not Clint.

  He rubs his cheek against mine as if to punctuate his statement.

  I appreciate his belief in me, but I don’t have the same belief in myself. Even with Archer’s help, I’ve barely gotten a handle on my witch powers. The magic is like a living thing inside me, constantly moving through my limbs. I’m not certain it doesn’t have a mind of its own. During the three days I spent in the mating cabin transitioning into my magic, I was pretty out of it most of the time, lost in a sort of delirium. But I have a clear memory of fighting off an evil dark cloud that wanted me to kill the shifters.

  Was it real? Or did I just dream it?

  I don’t have the answer, but if it’s true that the witch part of me has a mind of her own, there’s no telling what she’s capable of.

  You’re safe now, Archer goes on when I don’t speak.

  Am I? I pull back so that I can meet his gaze. Do you remember what Clint said before he died? ‘You better hope she doesn’t find out about you.’ Who was he talking about? Who’s ‘she’?

  Archer shrugs. I wish I knew. But if someone shows up, we’ll protect you. Dare, Ridge, Trystan, me—we’ve got your back. Always.

  He leans in again and nuzzles my neck, pressing our bodies together in a semblance of a hug. My heart swells with his attention, even as I worry about this elusive “she” and what my uncle might have told her about his little experiment, if anything.

  The past twenty-four hours have been full of ups and downs. I’m still carrying the terrifying weight of my uncle’s revelations about me, about him, and about my past. But despite all that, I finally solidified the bond between me and my mates. I can feel the difference between us and sense the way we’re connected irrevocably. Archer’s right, as usual—the four of them will be beside me, come what may.

  We’ll help you. We’ll figure this out together, Archer says. He never stops trying to soothe my nerves, and I love that about him.

  I brush my cheek against his, feeling a little awkward about trying the whole “nuzzling” thing out. I’m still learning how to be a wolf in a lot of ways. But the movement feels as natural as a hug or kiss, and I lean into him, relishing the softness of his fur against mine.

  Ridge’s voice catches my attention, deep and rumbly even in my mind. We’re done. Bring the body.

  Archer’s warmth disappears from my side, and the cool night rushes back in, bursting the small, safe bubble that built up between the two of us. He trots to Clint’s head, and his teeth latch on to the man’s flannel shirt, but before I can join him to help, Trystan appears. The large brown wolf snuffles my ear, which is strangely both soothing and erotic, then bypasses me to latch on to Clint’s other shoulder. The two wolves drag the body to the grave.

  The heels of Clint’s heavy boots scrape over the ground, dislodging little pieces of dirt and carrying an inch of forest detritus with him. He’s as limp as a rag doll, his arms splayed at his sides and his head lolling toward Archer’s jaw. The wolves get him quickly to the edge of the long, narrow hole Dare and Ridge have dug and drop him onto the ground next to the opening with little ceremony. Then all four wolves give my uncle a nudge with their noses. He rolls into the grave and hits the fresh earth below with a solid thud.

  I step up to the edge of the hole and gaze down into the darkness. My wolf sight has no problem making out my uncle’s placid face, a splash of pale, ghostly color against the dirt. He looks as if he could be sleeping, except for the blood that marks his face and stains his neck and shirt.

  My four mates surround the hole and begin to kick soil back into the grave. I watch my uncle’s blood-streaked face until the dirt covers him completely, as if he were never there at all.

  2

  Sable

  It’s well past midnight, probably close to one in the morning, when the five of us slow to a walk on the narrow street that runs through the main part of the North Pack village.

  I’m exhausted from the journey—racing to my uncle’s house, finding him and fighting him, then sprinting back home. It’s a lot for one night. Not to mention, we did it all on the heels of Ridge’s fight with Lawson after his brother challenged him, followed by some seriously intense sex.

  Honestly, it’s probably a miracle I can even stand on my own at this point. The thought of Ridge’s comfortable bed and fresh, clean sheets sounds better than heaven.

  But even though my body is running on fumes and ready to collapse, my mind is wired. Maybe it’s because I have this strange agitation inside me—a niggling feeling that even though the rest of my life has just begun, there’s someone out there who might destroy it all.

  You better hope she doesn’t find out about you.

  I shudder, and my hackles rise instinctively.

  The North Pack’s settlement is a hodgepodge of small metal shacks, log cabins, and gravel roads set well off the grid in the Montana wilderness. This late at night, the streets of the village are empty, though I can hear voices somewhere nearby, accompanied by the scent of cooking meat and the distant glow of a fire. Not everyone is asleep, which probably shouldn’t surprise me in a community full of shifters. Some are just out of sight.

  I catch a glimpse of a curtain fluttering in the window of a small cabin as we pass, and a curious face peers out at us. Ridge leads us down the street with his nose in the air to sniff at the wind, a partial moon shining on his auburn fur. I’m sure his wolf is a familiar sight to everybody in his pack, including the man in the window. I wonder, though, how the pack feels about the rest of us. Three wolves from different packs, and one girl who shouldn’t be a wolf at all, striding through the darkened streets together.

  Another curtain parts in the next house, and light spills onto the grass through the open window. There’s too much illumination behind the face for me to see the person’s expression, but some wolf sense inside me recognizes suspicion. It dances in the air between us, tickling my consciousness. I’m not naive enough to pretend the shifter’s suspicion isn’t firmly placed on me, the white-and-blonde dappled wolf who doesn’t belong.

  The girl who carries a shifter and witch magic.

  My shift into wolf form and Ridge’s proclamation that I’m his mate did smooth some things over on the heels of his duel, after everyone in his pack saw magic leak out of my fingertips. But Amora warned us that many people are still freaked out by me. That’s what sent the five of us to Clint’s house. We hoped that if we could find answers about who I am and why I’m both witch and wolf, maybe it would soothe some of the more worried pack members.

  But I’m not sure if the answer we found is one that will soothe anybody. It definitely didn’t help me.

  We shift back to our human forms on the lawn
outside Ridge’s cabin, and as cool air rushes over my bare skin, I’m hit by a wave of lightheadedness that makes me reach for Dare’s arm. He grabs me, his fingers curling around my arms.

  “You need rest,” he says, catching my eye. He looks stressed-out and exhausted himself, with his dark hair in wild spikes and shadows growing beneath his eyes above the scruff on his cheeks. I know I’m the one who put some of those shadows there. He lost sleep over my transition to witch. Hell, he kind of lost his mind over it and went on a witch killing rampage.

  But he’s here now with his thumbs brushing gently over my biceps as he holds me on my feet. He kisses me softly, then guides me toward the house.

  I’ve overextended myself, both physically and emotionally, and all I want to do is crash. But it turns out the cabin isn’t empty.

  Amora stands up from the couch as we enter, tossing one of Ridge’s magazines back onto the coffee table. “Oh, thank God. Is everyone all right?”

  “We’re fine.” Ridge nods, stepping forward. “What are you doing here?”

  Amora is one of Ridge’s oldest friends and confidantes, and she’s been almost sisterly to me in the short amount of time I’ve been here. She’s stunning, with a lithe body toned by hours spent running in the woods and long, shiny dark hair that falls in waves down her back.

  “I was worried about you. All of you,” she adds, giving me a small smile. “I swear I went home and had every intention of going to bed, but I couldn’t. So I came back to wait up for you.”