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  Wolf Mates - Book 3

  Gotta Have Faith

  Copyright ©2015 Dakota Cassidy

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then purchase your own copy from appropriate distributor. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement from the author of this work.

  Text copyright © Dakota Cassidy 2015 Third Edition All Right Reserved

  Cover Art: Renee George

  Dedication

  With love and enormous gratitude to my good buddy Saranna DeWylde. Not only are you a kick-ass writer, but an awesome friend. Love you to bits! Also to my ever-amazing, incredibly insightful, faithfully consistent editor Kelli Collins, who’s got to be just a little nuts to take on the challenge of editing my crazy, and whose friendship means so much. You rule the red pen, lady. Don’t ever let anybody tell you different. Love you much!

  Dear Readers,

  Please note, this is installment 3 in the Wolf Mates series. If you recognize the concepts from book 1, An American Werewolf in Hoboken and book 2 What’s New Pussycat?, they were each originally written in 2006. Since then I’ve updated and expanded them both, republished them, and as I did so, I managed to expand and incorporate this new couple, Faith and Brock, into each book.

  I’ve labeled this installment 3, even though, while a brand-new addition to the Wolf Mates series, it is a quickie. But Brock and Faith deserved to have their story told. However, please note, this isn’t meant to be read as a stand-alone title and picks up right where What’s New Pussycat? left off.

  Thank you so much for all the wonderful email about An American Werewolf in Hoboken and What’s New Pussycat? Y’all rock! I hope you enjoy reading Faith and Brock’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it!

  Other works by Dakota Cassidy

  Paranormal Novels

  The Wolf Mates Series:

  An American Werewolf in Hoboken—Book 1

  What’s New, Pussycat?—Book 2

  Fangs of Anarchy—Forbidden Alpha (Serial)

  Parts 1 through 5

  Forbidden Alpha Bundle (Parts 1 through 5)

  Fangs of Anarchy 2: Outlaw Alpha

  Part 1—Bound

  Part 2--Undone

  Part 3 -- Fugitives

  Polanski Brothers: Home of Eternal Rest

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  The Accidental Series:

  The Accidental Series - 9 Books

  The Hell Series:

  Kiss & Hell—Book 1

  My Way to Hell—Book 2

  Contemporary Novels

  The Call Girls Series:

  Talk This Way—Prequel Novella

  Talk Dirty to Me—Book 1

  Something to Talk About—Book 2

  Talking After Midnight—Book 3

  The Ex-Trophy Wives Series:

  You Dropped a Blonde on Me—Book 1

  Burning Down the Spouse—Book 2

  Waltz This Way—Book 3

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Join The Tiara Diaries

  Chapter One

  “I’m sorry. That was rude of me not to introduce myself. I’m Brock Adams. Derrick’s father—”

  Brock stiffened the moment the words flew from his mouth and quickly stepped back into the shadows, mentally reminding his just-along-for-the-ride fairy and one-time cellmate, Winston, to ramp up the spell they’d cast to cloak his true identity.

  Winston! Do you remember the part of the deal I made with Lorelei that said I could never return to the pack? That I had to pretend to be dead? Ramp up the cloaking spell, buddy—pronto!

  Winston squirmed in his shirt pocket. Sorrysorrysorry! I nodded off after exhausting myself trying to talk you out of this asshattery. And how many times have I told you I suck at witchcraft?

  The fairy paused for a moment before Brock felt the slight pull of his skin, praying Derrick and his new mate hadn’t caught a clear glimpse of him.

  And shit, shit, shit, Brock. You can’t tell them who you are, moron. You’ve been in Cedar Glen all of twenty minutes, and already you’re shitting all over everything you’ve sacrificed to accomplish.

  Brock remembered that just before Derrick Adams blinked and shook his head then snaked a hand out and gripped the collar of his shirt, his blue eyes full of fiery confusion. “Hold on. For a second there, you almost looked… You’re not my father. Who the hell are you, and why are you claiming to be my father?”

  Derrick’s nostrils flared and instantly he let him go, as though simply touching Brock was like coming into contact with the plague. Then he pushed a beautiful dark-haired woman behind him in a protective gesture.

  Squaring his shoulders, Brock cleared his throat and assessed Derrick, his heart constricting in his chest. Tall and strong and clearly very angry with his father, judging by the granite expression. Derrick waited for an explanation.

  He held up a hand, stepping out of the shadows. “My apologies. I meant, I’m here on behalf of your father, Brock Adams—who is your father, correct? You are Derrick Adams, aren’t you?”

  Derrick’s face instantly tightened, his lips thinning, but his tone was cordial. “I am, and my apologies as well. You sounded just like my father for a minute.”

  Close call, moron.

  The pretty woman nudged Derrick from behind. “Maybe we should invite him in, Neanderthal? It’s freezing out there, Derrick.”

  Derrick’s eyes hardened. “I don’t want or need a message from my father. So there’s no need to invite him in.”

  His stomach tightened as the heavy snow battered his face. Jesus. He’d forgotten how cold Cedar Glen could get—and how cold Derrick could get when he was angry. Derrick had always withdrawn. He let his anger eat him up. He bottled it until the top popped off and he exploded.

  That wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t how he wanted any of this. He just wanted to know what the hell was going on so he could fix it. And then he wanted to leave before he couldn’t leave. Before…

  But he’d been so startled to see this woman answer the door. A woman Derrick looked at with so much love in his eyes. Brock lost his composure, and the million-and-one introductions he’d rehearsed over and over in his head moments before ringing the doorbell tonight vanished.

  Staring into Derrick’s flaming eyes, Brock nodded curtly. “I understand. Sorry to have disturbed you. I should go.”

  He turned to take his leave, but the dark-haired woman grabbed his arm and squeezed it. “You most certainly will not! If you’re a friend of Brock Adams’s, you’re a friend of ours. Please, come in,” she said with a welcoming smile, ushering him inside to the warm foyer and shaking her head at his protests.

  Derrick folded his arms over his bare chest as the woman closed the front door. He was sending her signals with his eyes. Signals that said, “I have no father. He deserted me. He’s an asshole. How could you?”

  But the
woman wasn’t having any of it, and it was all he could do not to bark his laughter. Someone had tamed Derrick, and that someone was this lovely girl.

  She flapped her hands at Derrick and gave him the evil eye. “Oh, knock it off, Derrick. Didn’t these last few weeks teach you anything about grave misunderstandings and the importance of family?” She paused a moment, waiting for Derrick to answer.

  But he remained stone-faced—resentful—in a very Derrick-like way.

  The woman stuck her tongue out at Derrick and rolled her eyes before looking at Brock and smiling again. “I’m Martine Brooks, Derrick’s mate. You are?”

  He cleared his throat again, allowing her to take his coat, because he’d decided even being in a room with Angry Derrick was better than being in a room without him in it at all.

  She peered at him from behind thick lashes. “You are…?” she coaxed.

  Winston stirred in his pocket again. Yeah. You are? Jesus and hellfire, dummy! I told you this wasn’t a good idea. But no. Would you listen to me? Why would you listen to a jacked-up fairy? It’s like you have no ears where I’m concerned. And frankly, I’m sick to death of being ignored. Just because I’m small does not mean my ideas are. And this, you stupid, stupid man, was a bad idea. A very big, very bad idea.

  As if on cue, there was his conscience. Winston, his ever-faithful, stalwart fairy, always available to give his opinion.

  Pressing his hand to the pocket of his flannel shirt, he hushed his beleaguered fairy with a tap of his index finger. Only he could hear Winston, of course, something he still didn’t quite understand the logistics of, but his constant naysaying and reminders of imminent failure were like sharp little thorns in his side.

  Okay, so where were they?

  Your name, you oaf. Make up a damn name!

  Brock instantly held out his hand and forced a smile. “I’m Kanye…er, Winston.”

  Kanye? As in West? Like married-to-a-Kardashian Kanye West? Are you effin’ kidding me? Is this what you do while you brood all night, every night, since we found our freedom? Watch reality TV? Winston chirped, his tone judgy and condescending.

  Maybe. Okay, sometimes.

  But the dank studio apartment he’d managed to hole them up in for a few days while he did some maintenance on the plumbing only had a couple of good channels.

  You can beat down the Kardashians, but don’t knock the Housewives, Win. I kinda like Lisa from Beverly Hills when she slam-dunks that Brandi in a British accent. It always sounds so polite when she tells her that her arse is full of shite. And I couldn’t help it, damn it. It was the first name that popped into my head, he mentally whispered back in defense of his grapple to stay focused.

  Martine cocked her head, her smile evolving from warm to hesitant when she finally spoke. “Kanye? Like West? Kanye West?”

  He rolled his shoulders and gritted his teeth. Running a hand over his temples, he apologized. “Sorry. That’s my middle name. It’s been a long day…”

  Winston groaned, the sound of it pinging in his head. L ie down and die now, man. Just give it up, bro.

  He needed to get it together pronto. “My name is Eli Kanye Winston.”

  That doesn’t sound convoluted at all, asshat. It sounds like a perfectly reasonable name. In fact, if I ever have children, I’m naming them all Eli Kanye Winston.

  He tweaked his shirt pocket, squeezing Winston’s tiny leg to hush him while he watched Martine and Derrick process his name.

  Martine was the first to react by gesturing to the couch. “Would you like to sit, Eli? Maybe a cup of coffee to warm you while you tell us why you’re here?”

  Yeah. The reason he was here. Why was he here? Why hadn’t he just stayed the hell away until he had a better plan?

  Because that bitch gypped you and you want a refund? But before you get your refund, you had to come and torture yourself with what you can’t ever have if you intend to keep your part of the bargain with that nutbag she-devil? Because you actually think you can do something to fix this dang mess?

  I had to know if it was true, Win, he answered, defending his actions for the hundredth time.

  “Eli?” Martine nudged with a question in her tone. “Coffee?”

  Brock rolled his head on his neck and nodded, forcing a smile to his lips. “Please.”

  Martine grinned and waved a hand toward the living room, before twisting her hair up into a knot at the top of her head. “Grab a seat while I make some.”

  Derrick didn’t protest, but he did grunt before following Martine into the kitchen, leaving Brock standing in awkward silence in the living room to cast a glance at the house Derrick lived in.

  He’d done a really nice job of renovating since he’d last seen it. Had Martine had a hand in that?

  Winston flicked his chest, leaving a sharp sting behind. You’re an idiot. No good can come of this. What message do you have from Brock? Have you given that any thought? Better think quick or that big hulk of a man is going to eat your face off.

  Brock remained stoically silent. Win was right. Now what?

  He cocked his head to listen to Derrick and Martine in the kitchen, but he couldn’t quite catch everything they were saying. Bits and pieces of terse words like “for a minute there he looked…” and “father” and “no-good sonofabitch” floated in the air, followed by “don’t be a shithead” and “he smells funny” were all Brock could catch before they were making their way back into the living room, where he still stood in uncomfortable repose.

  Martine threaded her arm through Brock’s and led him to a puffy chair while Derrick unceremoniously dropped three mugs on a coffee table, making some of the liquid slosh on the shiny surface. “Make yourself comfortable, please, Eli,” she said through clenched teeth, narrowing her eyes at Derrick.

  The weight of what he’d done was beginning to sink in. The impact of it washed over him like bath water. Brock began to back away, looking for his coat. “I really shouldn’t have imposed. I’m sorry. It was wrong of me. I—”

  “Nonsense!” Martine said, her voice rising when she pointed to the chair. “You will sit and warm yourself. You’re soaked and I won’t have any friend of Brock’s catching pneumonia on my watch. Drop it like it’s hot. Er, please.” She followed up with another one of her dazzling smiles to cover the force she’d used in her tone as she plunked down next to Derrick on the couch.

  Reluctantly, he dropped into the chair facing them, running a hand over his wet hair and accepting a steaming cup of coffee from Martine.

  Derrick glared at him over the haze of steam coming from his mug, making sure Brock knew he was displeased by his presence without actually telling him he was displeased—likely he was holding back after a stern warning issued from Martine.

  Thus, more awkward silence ensued in all its thick, oppressive glory.

  Did I mention you’re a moron? Drink that damn coffee then get the hell out. We need to split before this Derrick makes Christmas dinner fashioned from your intestines.

  He knew Win was right. Knew he should just make something up and hit the road, but even as angry as Derrick was, he was still a sight for sore eyes.

  Martine leaned forward, her gaze meeting Brock’s from her place on the couch beside Derrick. “So, how do you know Brock and why are you here on his behalf?”

  Brock swallowed hard before answering. “Did I say I was here on Brock’s behalf?”

  Her head bobbed, but she still smiled. “You did.”

  Fuck. He had.

  Yeah, Winston chirped. You sure did.

  To ease his discomfort, Brock stuck a finger in the collar of the flannel shirt he’d found at the Goodwill store, feeling the room begin to close in on him. “I did. Right.” He nodded his head, gulping more of the hot coffee and ignoring the burn of his throat.

  The muscles in Derrick’s arms flexed, going rigid, signally the beginning of an angry simmer sure to boil over any second. “Look, buddy, what’s your deal here? You show up at my house in the middle
of the night, claiming you know my father, and now you clam up? Get to the point, and get to it fast before I launch your ass right back out of here and into the nearest snowdrift.”

  Martine’s eyes flashed wide when she grabbed Derrick’s forearm and squeezed, her knuckles whitening. “Stop. I mean it, Derrick. Stop. Right now. If Eli has information about Brock, I want to know what it is. Faith deserves to know what it is. Now quit being an asshole or I’ll be spending the night at your mother’s.”

  Faith. Jesus, he’d give a limb just to get a mere glimpse of her.

  Clearly Derrick wasn’t backing down this time, if the line of his lips and the set of his jaw was any indication. “Leave my mother out of this. The last damn thing she needs is to get her hopes up about my father. He left her five years ago. He left all of us five years ago. End of.”

  Now Martine’s eyes flashed hotter than Derrick’s when she slammed her coffee cup on the table and turned to face him. “The hell I will! First of all, don’t tell me what to do, Farm Boy, because you’re scratching up the wrong post if you think that’ll fly. Second, if Eli has information about Brock—you know, the man your mother loves and misses desperately? I absolutely will not keep it from her, no matter how small or potentially horrible. I have a really good relationship with your mother; one I have no intention of mucking up because you’re a dick about the subject of your father. So sit back, shut up, and get over your own issues long enough to think about someone else besides yourself!”

  Brock winced. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want Derrick and his mate to argue over him.

  Martine turned to face him again. “Sorry. I’m not going to beat around the bush and tell you Brock Adams isn’t a sore subject in these parts. Because he is. As sore as sore gets. Like open oozing-wound sore. Especially with my mate here.” She thumbed an agitated finger at Derrick. “Despite that, I want to know what you have to say, Eli. Please. And do ignore Derrick while you tell me why you’re here. You’ll do the world and yourself a favor if you just block him and all his crabby out and focus on me.”