ROMAN
(WOLVES OF WINTER’S EDGE, BOOK 2)
By T. S. JOYCE
Roman
Copyright © 2016 by T. S. Joyce
Copyright © 2016, T. S. Joyce
First electronic publication: December 2016
T. S. Joyce
www.tsjoyce.com
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Published in the United States of America.
Cover Image: Furious Fotog
Cover Model: Dylan Horsch
Other Books in this Series
Gentry (Book 1)
Asher (Book 3)
Contents
Copyright
Other Books in this Series
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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About the Author
Chapter One
The flashing red and blue police lights were giving Roman Striker a headache.
He didn’t know how the werewolf who was standing right beside the crime scene could stand it. Five minutes parked behind the police tape in the woods right outside of town, and he was ready to pick up the damn police cruiser and chuck it into the trees.
The paramedics loaded a covered body into the back of an ambulance, and Roman narrowed his eyes at the dark-haired giant in the policeman’s uniform, watching the body disappear with a dead expression in his icy blue eyes. See, this was the problem with the alpha of the Bone-Ripper Pack. Rhett was unstable at best, a brutal alpha, a dickhead on a good day, and he was also the chief of police in a town that didn’t know what kind of monster lived inside him. He was taking notes and statements, as though he wasn’t the one who murdered that tourist.
Rhett was a wolf in officer’s clothing. Small town law enforcement, so he got away with everything. Rangeley was being run by a monster, and the unsuspecting humans here didn’t have any idea how bad this was about to get.
Roman’s brother, Gentry, had gone to war with the alpha. Hell, Roman and Asher had joined him. Gentry had nearly ripped Rhett’s throat out, and that kind of defeat did bad things to alphas like him. It was a slow, mental poison—the idea that Gentry could come in and take his throne whenever he wanted. That, and Rhett still looked weak as fuck. Hunched and pale, he wasn’t healing right. Good. Made it easier for Roman to kill that asshole when his brothers weren’t looking. Gentry and Asher didn’t even know he was out here tonight, following tips on the police scanner, watching Rhett. He’d been doing this for a few weeks now, observing Rhett’s routine, figuring out who he met up with and when. Figuring out his patterns, where he felt comfortable, where he let down his guard.
Maybe his brothers had some bigger plan for this town, but not Roman. He was going to avenge Dad, avenge Blaire, and then turn right back around and leave this hell-hole, just like he had when he was kicked out of the pack all those years ago.
As if his dad could feel his anger, he appeared out of the corner of Roman’s eye. He didn’t startle at the pale, transparent figure on the edge of the woods who stood staring at him. Dad had been haunting him from the moment Rhett took his life.
That little talent was Odine’s fault. She’d done her black magic on him to turn him into a werewolf, and now he was like that little kid in the movie, The Sixth Sense, seeing dead people and shit. Thanks for nothing, witch.
Dad looked like he had the last time Roman had seen him, down to the same outfit and everything. He stood there, staring, just like the day Roman had driven away from here. He still hated his father.
When the back door to his Jeep Wrangler opened, Roman startled hard. Before he managed to twist around in his seat, the acrid scent of fear mixed with vanilla hit his nose. Mila.
Roman huffed a dark laugh. “Get out.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Well, that makes two of us, Mila.”
“No, I mean, you shouldn’t be in this town. You don’t understand what’s happening here. Leave, Roman.”
Mila sounded scared, but she was a submissive, at the very bottom of the Bone-Ripper Pack. She was scared of her own shadow.
Roman turned to pop off with a pert, “Fuck off,” but he stopped when he saw her.
Mila had changed in the years he’d been away. She wasn’t some pin-thin rail of a nerd anymore. She had grown out her dark brunette hair and cut her bangs so they hung heavy over her eyes—probably to hide. Submissives liked being invisible. But she couldn’t hide how fucking gorgeous she’d grown up to be. Little nose, rosy cheeks, full lips, fair skin. Her hair hid her big ears. He’d always made fun of them when they were kids. Her eyes looked different, though. In the past, Mila used to have control over her wolf, and her eyes had stayed this soft chocolate brown. But since he’d come back to Rangeley, he’d never seen her eyes any color but the striking champagne tone of her wolf. Something bad had happened to her animal to freeze that color in her face. Don’t pity her. She’s one of them.
Mila was wearing a thick, black jacket with one of those fur-lined hoods, and she was hunched down in the seat, hiding behind him. Hiding from her alpha, who would probably kill her just for talking to Roman.
Roman couldn’t figure out if he cared too much about that yet. Mila felt like a traitor.
“You need to stop digging, need to stop stalking. You and your brothers need to go.”
“Go where?” he asked innocently. “This is home-sweet-home.”
“B-bullcrap. You left on purpose.” Whoo, there was deep bitterness in her voice. Roman glared at her suspiciously, tried to figure out what that angry look in her eyes meant. Mila had feelings about him leaving?
“You and your brothers are the reason this is all happening,” she said on the quietest breath. “The least you can do is let us try and pick up the pieces.”
Roman slammed his open palm on the steering wheel. “Pick up the pieces by murdering some hunter in the woods? Pick up the pieces by hunting Blaire? By trying to kill her? I fucking saw you there, Mila. Yeah, you hung back, but you were there, herding her, helping Rhett hunt a fucking human woman. Do you know what we had to do—?” Roman cut himself off from the memory of what Odine had done to save Blaire’s life. Mila didn’t deserve the real stuff. He was a jokester, sure. He liked to play, liked to mask hurt with laughter. But underneath the j
okes, he was pissed, and Mila was here practically begging for him to take his anger out on her.
Dad was closer now, twenty yards away from the window, still staring. Always staring. Roman scrubbed his hand down his face. He wanted to hurt her with words because that’s what monsters like him did. “When we were kids, I remember you liked Gentry.”
“False.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Mila. You had eyes for Gentry—”
“Because he could’ve kept me safe! You arrogant asshole, you know nothing about me or my life. He could’ve kept me safe. Gentry was nice to submissives, just like your dad was. He left me. You left me. Asher left me.”
“Why didn’t you leave then, Mila? Huh? This isn’t on me or my brothers. Why didn’t you pack your shit and find a better pack?”
“Because Odine bound me to Rangeley!” Mila dragged in a sound that resembled a muffled sob, and Roman jerked his gaze to the back seat just in time to see her shoving the door open. A tear glistened on her cheek. Before she slid out of his jeep, she whispered raggedly, “You didn’t even say goodbye, Roman. You were my friend once, and that’s the only reason I’m trying to save you now. Just…stay away from the witch, and leave while you still can. Please.”
Mila closed the door behind her quietly and slipped into the woods.
The ghost of his father watched her leave, just like Dad had watched Roman leave all those years ago.
The flashing police lights turned off, and when Roman dragged his gaze from the snowy woods where Mila had disappeared, Rhett was staring in the same direction with pure fury in his eyes. Something dark and ugly churned in his gut at Rhett glaring after Mila like that, but it also gave him the very beginnings of an idea.
His brother, Gentry, wanted to break apart the Bone-Ripper Pack just like he did the wild wolves he’d been trained to hunt, but that wouldn’t work. Gentry was forgetting one essential thing—the Bone-Rippers weren’t wild wolves.
Roman gave Rhett a remorseless smile. He was going to hunt the pack his own way, by digging into the weakest member, and then work his way through the ranks, dropping little grenades until he reached the very top.
Roman was going to annihilate Rhett for all he’d done to his Dad, to this town, to Blaire, and to that hunter in the body bag.
But first, he needed to turn Mila against her alpha.
Chapter Two
Mila scribbled another circle onto a notepad full of them and blew her bangs out of her face. They settled right back down in front of her eyes, though. She needed a haircut, but then, it was so nice to hide from Rhett. Her alpha liked to look right in her eyes as if he was trying to see into her soul, and as silly as it sounded, the bangs provided a little shield, so she let them grow.
The door opened, and she looked up hopefully for a customer, but nope, it was just Tim who owned this place now. Business was at a standstill since Rhett had decided to chase the humans from the bar. It made shifts at the Four Horsemen tedious at best.
“Trouble’s comin’,” Tim murmured, a storm in his eyes.
“Rhett?” she asked in a higher pitch than she’d intended. She was supposed to have a few more hours before he showed up here tonight.
Tim walked right past the bar, his bushy, gray brows lowered in thought, as though he hadn’t heard her.
The door swung open, and in with the snowflakes blew Roman Striker. Mila swallowed a yelp as the door banked against the wall.
He wore a thin white T-shirt over dark jeans with holes at the knees. Dark tendrils of ink marked up both arms. He hadn’t had any tattoos when he’d left here at seventeen. He hadn’t worn a thick beard either. His piercing blue eyes were still the same, but that was about it. Roman looked like a man now. It was such a strange sensation comparing the man who stood in the doorway, eyes locked on her, with the boy she used to know. With the boy she had secretly crushed on from afar.
Now he was taller, layered with muscle, covered in tattoos, and from the circular shapes pressing against the threadbare material of his shirt, he had his nipples pierced, too. Roman dropped his chin to his chest, eyes holding hers while a slow, sensual smile stretched his lips. “You look different, too.”
Mila clutched the pad of doodles to her chest and kept the shocked gasp squarely in her throat. “I-I wasn’t checking you out.”
“Bullshit, but I don’t mind.” He pulled off a navy winter hat and ran his hand through his blond hair roughly. It somehow made him look sexier instead of slobby.
Roman closed the door and strode over to the to-go station she was sitting behind, his boots unlaced, the tongue of his shoes flopping with each deliberate step. He was graceful, but much louder than she remembered. Maybe that came with the size. She was like a mouse—quiet, striving for invisibility, always careful with her movements.
“What are you doing here?” she murmured low as he made his way behind the bar. “If Rhett catches you in here—”
“What? He’ll kill me like he did that hunter?”
“Shhh,” she hissed, looking around. “He didn’t kill him.”
Roman was talking about things he didn’t understand.
Stupid boy.
Roman arched his eyebrow and gave her a dead-eyed look. Well, Rhett probably didn’t kill the hunter. She didn’t really know. Rhett was capable of awful things.
Roman squared up to her and slid his hands onto her waist.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“Seducing you.”
“Stop!” Mila swatted his hand, but he was backing her slowly to the wall with a wicked grin on his lips. “I’m not playing games with you, Roman. Whatever you’re here for, spill it and let me be.” She had enough problems without Rhett seeing Roman with his hands on her. God, she couldn’t even imagine her alpha’s reaction. He hated the Striker brothers.
“I have a business proposition,” Roman murmured, trapping her into a corner out of view of the door. He smelled like toothpaste and cologne—the good stuff. It was making her dizzy.
“What?”
“Focus, Mila.”
She was. She was focused on the way his lips formed her name. He sure wore a beard well.
Roman leaned forward, his smile widening as he did. His lips were right by her ear when something brushed her hand, and he said, “There’s no way you’re making enough here to cover your bills. This place is a pit.” He held a folded piece of paper against her palm. “Let me guess, your alpha chased all the paying customers out. Not shocking. Rhett is shit at leadership. You know he’ll split this town and throw suspicion on the pack in a year tops.”
Actually, he’d managed that in the first week of being alpha, but Roman didn’t need to know that.
“Or has he already done that, I wonder?” Roman asked. “Has he, Mira?”
“Y-yes.” Shit. Stop talking.
“Good girl.”
His body was so warm against hers now. She normally would’ve felt trapped about now, wanting to curl up in a ball and disappear, but something was happening to her body. She was tingling, and fire was flowing through her veins from where he held her hand up her arm and into her chest. That felt nice, but after a couple of seconds, another sensation took over. Roman was too dominant and way too close, and her lungs were slowly freezing in her ribcage.
Roman’s nostrils flared as he scented the air. “Still a little chicken.”
Mila hated the acrid scent of her fear, but that was the curse of the submissive wolf that dwelled within her. She was in a constant state of fear—especially in Rangeley.
Roman backed off a few paces, and that worked enough for her to drag a shallow breath in. She looked down at the paper he’d left in her hand. There was a drawing of a dick on it. It had a frowney face on the balls.
“Why did you give me a cartoon penis?” she asked.
“What?” Roman frowned at the paper and then chuckled an amused sound. “Oh yeah, I was drawing Asher. Open it up. It’s a present.”
Mila unfolded the worn paper carefully
. It was a Now Hiring announcement for Winter’s Edge, the rival bar in town. The one Roman’s father had run before he’d been silenced by Rhett. She checked the door again real quick and then looked around for Tim, but she and Roman were alone. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Roman, what are you doing?” She held up the paper. “This can’t happen. I can’t go work at your bar!”
“Why not?” Roman wore a cocky grin as he leaned back against the counter. She could see the perfect indentations of his abs right through his shirt.
Focus.
“You keep looking at my dick.”
“I’m not! I don’t. It’s your”—she waved her hand at his stomach—“freaking…twenty pack. Do you work out all the time now? I mean…is a million crunches a day really necessary?” Stop talking.
“You look mad. Or flustered. Am I flustering you, Little Chicken?”
“Stop calling me that. We aren’t kids anymore, Roman. There is a hundred years and a canyon between now and where we used to be. You can’t just come back in here looking like…that…and think you can pick up where we left off.”
“Where did we leave off?” he asked innocently.
Games. Now she remembered it all so clearly. Roman loved playing games. He loved toying with people, and apparently he had his sights set on her tonight. Mila crumpled up the paper and chucked it at him. When it bounced off his chest, he caught it without even looking down. Of course he did. He was probably great with his hands.
Stupid boy.
Mila dug deep and found enough bravery to jam her finger at the front door. “Leave.”
“I’ll pay you double what you make here, and you don’t have to share your tips with the other servers.”
“Roman,” she pleaded, “you’re going to get me hurt.”
The smile fell from his face, and he stood up straighter, taller. Something terrifying flashed in the melted-gold color of his eyes. He clenched his jaw once and smelled of fury for just an instant before he huffed a breath and softened his face again. One side of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile that probably got him a lot of blow jobs. “No one will hurt you, Chicken.” Roman turned and strode toward the door, tugging on his winter hat as he went. “Interviews are at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” he called over his shoulder without turning around. At the door, he pulled it open and turned that crooked grin on her once again. “You’re my first choice.”