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  Said grunt, from deep in his throat, purred along her spine, making her nipples spike hard against her bra. As if on cue, his hard jaw tightened and his eyes flashed his anger before he masked it with indifference. “Yeah. Family. If that’s what you want to call her. She’ll never be pure as far as I’m concerned.”

  Freya cocked an eyebrow at him, the condescending eyebrow she’d used a million times in court as a well-paid defense attorney. “And you won’t ever be a werewolf, no matter how many beers you watch that slug Courtland and his dicknuckle biker buddies drink at Ahab’s while you’re trying so desperately to be one of the pack. So I’m not sure what your point is here—”

  “Hey!” Claire called, waving to her as she approached, pushing her way through the crowd of people gathered for the mate.

  If Claire had been beautiful before, she was even more so as a vampire. Her pale face somehow enhanced her flame-red hair and her eyes now had a rich glow burning in them.

  She was happy with Irish, happier than Freya had ever seen her, even when they’d lived in San Francisco before the paranormal crackdown. That much was evident, and for the most part, she was happy for her best friend.

  It was only every once in a while that the green-eyed monster crept in when Freya least expected it to, but she wrestled that demon alone. In silence.

  When Claire’s eyes caught sight of Liam, they changed, morphing from light to dark, but it didn’t stop her from coming to stand next to Freya.

  Liam nodded to both women, his dark head dipping before he grumbled out, “And on that note, have a good mate call, Freya.” He sauntered off into the crowd, his tight black jeans hugging his bulging thighs, his long, black leather trench coat—the one he wore in place of the jacket he was stripped of when he was ousted from the Fangs—fanning out behind him

  “So, brrr, huh?” Claire said on a chuckle, nudging her.

  Freya’s eyebrow rose. Obviously they were going to ignore the subject of Liam. “Oh, ‘brrr’, my ass. You can’t feel the cold anymore. Don’t taunt. It’s a little gloat-y and might even earn you a throat punch if you keep it up.”

  Claire wrapped her arm around Freya’s shoulder and squeezed so hard she’d swear she heard her bones whimper in protest. “Do I hear some green-eyed monster in your tone?”

  Freya shrugged her off and scoffed, peering into Claire’s pretty face, almost glowing under the light of the full moon. “You’re damn right, you do. Only you, when faced with the idea of mating with one of these heathens, would have a vampire turn you in order to avoid spending a life of pure torture with these antiquated grease monkeys. At least the vampires in this town are good-looking. So I bow to your genius. But if you razz me once more about having to attend this fuckfest of a mate when it’s zero below out and you can’t even feel my pain, I will throat punch you.”

  Claire pouted comically, her raspberry lips pressing together. “You wouldn’t hit me, because first, I’d flatten your ass with all my newly acquired vampy skills. Second, I didn’t mean to fall in love with a vampire. It just happened during a really stressful time.”

  That stressful time being when Claire was accused of murdering their former pack leader and Courtland’s brother, Gannon Dodd—who also, at the time, happened to be Claire’s intended mate.

  Freya patted her arm then hooked her hand through it. Gannon had deserved to die—plain and simple. “You’re right. And as compensation for your pain and suffering, you deserved to have Irish turn you into a vampire so you’ll never have to come to one of these mating rituals again. If I could avoid this ridiculous display of knuckle-dragging, I’d rather be a bloodsucker, too.”

  The grief Claire was the brunt of from her former pack mates stung her. Claire would never admit it, in fact, she’d stare it down with defiance, but she’d been called a traitor more than once since she’d been turned, and it hurt. Freya knew it hurt her because there was always an apology in her voice even when she defended her choice.

  “It was the only way Irish and I could be together now that our races have instituted these rules of separation amongst us. I did what I had to in order to be with the only man I’ve ever loved. I’d do it a hundred times over.”

  “And I wouldn’t blame you. All this mate call and clan purity almost makes me want to join The Opposition.”

  Claire made a face of disbelief at her. “You? In The Opposition? Wouldn’t your heels get in the way when you’re hiding deep in the woods, packing heat and planning your next attack on the meanie-butt humans and their absurd government laws? There’d be no time for you to do your nails if you’re hiding in some drug-infested halfway house or living in some secluded cabin in the woods,” she teased.

  It was fair to say The Opposition likely wasn’t her cuppa, due to her love of all things pretty. Though, since she’d been forced to move here, she didn’t much care what she wore. “But I’m a hella strategist. Just ask anyone from my old firm. You don’t need pretty nails to plan a course of action.”

  Just five years ago, she was a lawyer in San Francisco. Happily single, working her way up to partner at the prestigious Bittner, Bristow, and Payne. Now she resided in Rock Cove, Maine—or the Lobster Tundra, as she’d jokingly dubbed it—had no job, and lived off a meager supplemental income from the government.

  Every day since the move, she thanked Jesus and her mother for teaching her to hoard her money like an old woman hoarded cats.

  Even if she couldn’t be in the thick of some corporate trial, she could at least afford to live well. Not that she did. Since she’d been uprooted, her love of designer skirts and pretty shoes had fallen to the wayside. There was nothing and no one to wear them for.

  But she missed sparring with her legal opponents, the rush of taking a bitch down when they least expected it.

  She even, albeit reluctantly, missed the nickname her associates had given her—Ambush Ashe. Infamous for taking her opponents in court by surprise, she’d earned the name.

  Claire rubbed her arm and smiled affectionately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump salt in the open wound. But I’m hoping someday soon you’ll decide to rejoin me in the land of pretty where we wear cute jeans and mascara.”

  Yeah. She couldn’t wait for that day. “So I can what? Dress like a supermodel while I make my next quilt?” She’d taken up quilting as a hobby, as a way to keep busy while she figured out what her life—her future—meant.

  “You’re too short to be a supermodel.”

  “At five-foot-two, I’m only eight inches shy of a dream.”

  Claire stood on tiptoe, looking over the heads in the crowd and scanning the square. “So when does this shindig begin? Soon, I hope. Hadley has homework and I have some work to finish up for the library.”

  There was that sting of jealousy again. Just a little one, but it existed. Claire had a family and a mate now, and Freya had her dog Clarence Darrow and her quilting. Certainly equally as fulfilling.

  Freya poked her in the ribs with a gloved finger. “You don’t have to be here anymore, remember, Vampire? You’re no longer a werewolf. That means you can go home to your nice warm house and snuggle with your nice cold vampire.”

  “You were here for me last mate call. Our friendship resides on Two-Way Street.”

  Freya tucked a chunk of her hair behind her ear and shivered at the memory. “Last mate call we almost predicted Gannon was going to call you out. Of course I was here for you. No way would I let something that traumatic happen to you alone. But this mate call, I think we’re good. I think Courtland has his eye on one Miss Petra Morrow, anyway. Short of wearing a T-shirt declaring as such, she’s certainly made it no secret she wants to be female alpha.”

  Claire wrinkled her nose. “She seems like such a nice woman. What the hell makes her want to mate with someone like Courtland?”

  Freya knew exactly what she wanted. It was what all women in the pack now craved because there was little else to crave. “Power, I suspect. Being the alpha female would bring her p
ower, and she’s a smart woman, if her past profession in forensics is any indication. It’s not like she couldn’t run circles around Courtland’s brain if she wanted to. You do remember how easily led he was by big brother Gannon, don’t you? I’m guessing Petra could have whatever she wanted, given some time to convince Courtland. Coupled with the bigger checks Courtland gets from the government because he’s a town official, and she’d get a pay raise, too. Those are the only angles I can think of because it sure isn’t his charisma laced with the scent of sweat and cheap beer.”

  There was a rustle in the crowd as Courtland took his place behind the microphone on the floor of the gazebo.

  “I think the show’s about to start. Courtland looks pretty pleased with himself tonight, huh?” Claire asked.

  As she kicked the hardened snow at her feet, Freya clenched her jaw to keep from heckling Courtland Dodd while he stood smugly looking over the crowd, as though all the eligible women of the pack were frothing at the mouth to be considered his chosen one.

  “If the two brain cells he has left had any life in them at all, he’d see every single woman looks positively green around the gills at the possibility of mating with him. I wish he’d stop posturing and get on with it. I want to go home.”

  Claire laughed, tinkley and light. “So you can make another quilt, supermodel?”

  “Actually, smarty pants, I was going to dye my roots because no supermodel’s roots should look like mine.” She tugged at a strand of her hair, holding it up to the light of the moon. Her blonde had gone dingy and dirty—much like her life.

  Courtland tapped the microphone with a thick finger, quieting the crowd. His straggly hair blew around his shoulders in the frosty air, greasy and unkempt. As he cleared his throat and began to mumble into the mic, Freya promptly tuned out, disgusted by the whole process.

  When the return to the ways of old went into full force once the council realized they could find some packs extinct with the new laws in place, nights like this became quite frequent.

  The ways of old meant you no longer had a choice about who you were mated to. When you were called, your duty was to mate—no matter who did the calling. Yet, most of the eligible, single male candidates in her pack here in Rock Cove were made up of Neanderthal bikers with greasy hair and bad teeth who drank all night and abused their power as pack leaders.

  What kind of longevity did the council hope to gain with fools like Courtland Dodd and his sidekick who went by the name Pinky?

  Pinky…The name was as ridiculous as he was.

  Fuck Courtland. Fuck his stupid motorcycle gang who collectively shared one set of teeth between the lot of them. They were ill-mannered, uneducated imbeciles. Fuck them all.

  There was a gasp, rousing her from her hateful thoughts.

  A loud group gasp.

  And then there were eyes starting at her. Hundreds of pairs of eyes.

  Glowing under the buttery globe of the moon.

  She looked to Claire, whose eyes were also staring at her, but they were kind of wide and astonished.

  Curious.

  Mouths began to move, hands began to clap, but the sound had a weird, muffled effect to it.

  And then Claire was shaking her, her voice rushing into Freya’s ears. “Freya!”

  “What?” she yelled over the cheering from the crowd.

  “Weren’t you listening?” she hollered back, her red hair flying about her head.

  “To?”

  Claire’s face went whiter than its usual shade of pale. She gripped her arm, pulling her close, and began moving her through the crowd of smiling people. “The mate call, Freya,” she hissed in her ear.

  Freya yanked her arm out of Claire’s grip, startled by the panicked vibe she was picking up from her friend. “Where are we going and why are you dragging me around like an ill-behaved two-year-old? So Courtland called his mate. Whoop-whoop.”

  Claire stopped dead in her tracks, ignoring the people milling about them, and grabbed her chin, forcing Freya to look at her. “Look at me, and try to focus on my words. Yes, Courtland called his mate. He called you, Freya. You!”

  Whoop-whoop.

  Chapter 2

  Liam slid onto the barstool at Ahab’s and listened to the roar of the crowd outside as Courtland named his mate. The flames from the bonfire swept the sky as even his own kind gathered to watch the freak show.

  The mate had become an event in town—a reason to gather. Potluck dishes were made, hotdogs were roasted, buttered popcorn and hot chocolate scented the air.

  There was little to do here in Rock Cove. A community, in order to thrive and coexist, needed structure, rules, something to look forward to, and as much as the mating ritual disgusted him, he understood why it had become a party of sorts.

  To some it was cause to celebrate. Clearly, it wasn’t a celebration for Freya and her feministic, independent thinking. And he didn’t blame her. The mate call was a putrid display of chauvinistic fodder, made up of little boys who knew nothing about the gift of a woman.

  Freya…Damn. That woman.

  He’d watched her for two years now; watched her rounded hips and even rounder breasts hidden away in the bulky sweaters and sweatpants she chose to wear. He’d watched her lips, the color of ripe strawberries, purse in not-so-silent-distaste over the Dogs and their poor behavior at least a hundred times.

  He’d smelled her. Fuck, had he smelled her. Smelled the scent of her lavender-and-sage body wash when she breezed past him in town, her dirty-blonde hair in a messy ponytail, her cornflower-blue eyes serious. Imagined himself lathering that very soap in his hands under the hard spray of a shower just before he drove them between her legs and spread her wet flesh to ready it for his eager mouth.

  And he hated himself for it. He hated that when his hand reached for his cock in the shower, Freya’s strawberry-colored lips were wrapped around it, her pink tongue gliding over it in an image so clear, he had to grit his teeth.

  He hated that he wanted to strip her of the oversized clothing she wore until she was naked before him, with her nipples hard and tight and her plump pussy visible to his lustful eyes. He hated that he wanted to devour every inch of her until her hands gripped his hair and she screamed his name over and over.

  He hated that he couldn’t admit that to anyone, and in his hate, he’d built a nice cocoon of cocky, or what some would call an arrogant distance between himself and everything werewolf.

  He was good at it, too. He was good at keeping his bullshit fantasies and his Freya fetish to himself. He’d keep right on doing it. He’d keep right on ignoring her wide eyes, full of flashes of vulnerability. He’d keep right on ignoring how goddamn angry seeing her at the mate call left him. How it filled him with rage to know that someday, one of those jackholes would be her mate.

  The double doors of Ahab’s burst open, forcing him to dig himself out of his dark mood and focus on the ruckus happening all around him.

  Courtland strode toward him across the brick-colored concrete floor littered with peanut shells and slapped him on the back, the smell of beer puffing from between his thick lips. “Time to celebrate, Bloodsucker. I got a mate!”

  Liam made an effort to relax under Courtland’s grip on his shoulder. Sometimes, it was all he could do not to chew his hand right off his damn wrist every time the puke touched him, but he fought the impulse and smiled instead. “I heard. Congratulations, man. Best of luck.” You piece of shit.

  The crowd spilling into Ahab’s parted then, their loud voices becoming hushed whispers momentarily before someone chanted, “Freya! Freya! Freya!”

  Liam spun around on the barstool, his eyes scanning the litter of people to see Freya, clinging to Claire Montgomery as they were dragged into the bar.

  Liam sat up straight, sniffing the air, smelling Freya’s discontent and even some terror mixed in with the excitement of the crowd. He damn well hated when she was unhappy, but he hated it from afar.

  He hitched his jaw at Pinky, tryin
g to keep his question cavalier. “What the hell’s going on with her? She looks like someone just belted her in the gut.”

  Pinky spat some chew on the floor, grinding it into the concrete with his booted foot and shrugged his shoulders. “I think she’s a little in shock is all. She’ll get the fuck over it.”

  “Shock? Because?”

  Pinky looked at Liam as though he were the brainless of the two. “Yeah, you know, shock. Like the kind of fucking shocked when you hit the lottery or win some shit on Wheel of Fortune.”

  Liam’s eyes narrowed. “Speak English to me, Pink. She doesn’t look like she just won a car from Pat Sajack. So what the hell kinda shock are you talking about, man?”

  “The kind of shock a chick like that has when she hits the mate jackpot. She’s Courtland’s now, dude. He chose Freya as his mate.”

  Holy fuck.

  * * * *

  “Just follow me, Freya!” Claire ordered with a firm tug on her arm, dragging her toward the bar and pushing the overzealous crowd out of their way.

  She nodded woodenly, her feet moving because they had to do something or she’d bust out of this dive and run so far, so fast, she’d become a blur.

  When they finally made it to the long, sticky bar, well away from Courtland at the far end, Freya collapsed against it, clung to it, waited—prayed for the dizziness to pass.

  Courtland Dodd had called her as his mate.

  Smelly, greasy-haired, backward-ass, IQ-of-an-inanimate object, smarmy, lying Courtland Dodd.

  It was time to drink.

  Freya slammed her hand on the bar, summoning Lachlan Macgregor. She didn’t bother to linger on his handsome face the way she might have even just an hour ago, though he was certainly lovely to look at. With his thick chestnut hair and green eyes, he made all the women in town melty and giggly.

  But this was no time to giggle. She’d been called out for the mate—to Courtland Dodd. Would repeating that over and over in her head ever be any less vile?