Costin reached out with his wolf hearing and listened for Titus. His breaths were slow and even. He was in a deep sleep.

Costin shed his clothes and phased. He needed to run. His wolf needed to hunt and if they couldn’t hunt their mate, then he’d hunt something else—something he could kill. As he headed for the back door of the mansion and toward the forest that beckoned to him, he let the wolf take over completely. Costin let go of all the human emotions and gave into the wolf. He needed a break from the brokenness. He needed the confidence of the wolf.

“We will find her. We will protect our pup,” his wolf growled. There was no doubt to be found anywhere in the beast. Those two things would happen and the only thing that would prevent them from happening would be his death.

“It is not time for our death. It is time to hunt.” And with that thought, his wolf shot out into the woods. His shaggy brown fur was a blur, streaking through the trees. None could have matched his speed, not even the natural grey wolves that inhabited this region. For the moment, wolf and man would hunt together. They would stalk the prey that lived in the forest and they would kill it, quickly and mercifully. But soon, very soon they would stalk the ones that took their mate. And there would be death, but it would be anything but quick and merciful.

Chapter 1

“Sometimes I feel as though I am an actress with a bit role in this story called life. I feel like I’m simply going through practiced motions. I’m not really living, mostly just existing. It’s like I’m just stuck. I have no purpose, no plans, no ideas for the future. I’m just stuck.” ~Sally

“I don’t drink,” Sally answered the man, who had introduced himself as Cross. She was sitting across from him in his small, cluttered office. The walls were plastered with old record album covers and lined with numerous boxes boasting of different types of liquor. But the liquor that had once been in those boxes had been replaced by layers and layers of receipts, bills, and various other documents.

“You do realize that you are interviewing for a position as a bartender, right?” Cross asked. He was a burly man—biker-ish—if that’s even a word. What she meant, Sally thought, was that he looked like he belonged in a bar. He wore a scruffy shadow on his face as though he didn’t have time to shave and he wasn’t that concerned about it. His hair was short, cut close to the scalp, and looked to be a deep, chocolate brown. He had stern, serious, hazel eyes and what she thought might be a dimple on his left cheek. He was rugged, handsome, but rough around the edges.

“Is drinking experience a requirement for the job?” Sally asked. She wasn’t being sarcastic. She didn’t have a clue what was expected of a bartender. But she guessed that not drinking up all the bar’s products was probably a good thing.

He leaned back in his chair and rested his elbows on the arms. His hands steepled in front of him as he looked at her. It was like he was seeing her for the first time since she’d walked in.

“How old are you,” —he paused and looked down at her application— “Sally?”

“I’m twenty-one,” she answered as she reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. She fished through the billfold and pulled out a small plastic card. “At least, that’s what my driver’s license says.”

Cross took the license from her and stared at it, then looked back at her, and then looked back at the card. He sighed and handed it back. “Alright,” he said as he pushed up from the chair, placing his hands squarely on the desk in front of him. “We’ll give this a try. You’re a little wholesome for a bar, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t capable of doing the job. Something tells me that what you lack in experience, you’ll make up for in enthusiasm. And no offense, but just having someone as good looking as you behind the bar will probably increase our male patronage by about 200 percent.”

“Um…” Sally began.

“I’ll start you at twelve fifty an hour,” interrupted Cross. “Plus any tips you make are yours to keep. I’ll need you here at three in the afternoon. You’ll get off at midnight. I’ll have a bouncer walk you to your car in the evenings.”

“I don’t have a car,” she said and when he frowned she wished she’d just kept her mouth shut.

“Public transportation?”

“No, I walked. I live in the apartments a block down.”

“Okay, then, I’ll have a bouncer walk you to your apartment if it’s only a block away. It’s too late at night for you to be leaving by yourself.” His hands had moved from the desk to his hips where they now rested as he looked down at her. “Any questions?”

“What do I wear?”

“Ah,” Cross said as he held up a finger as if the idea had just occurred to him. He turned around and leaned over digging in a box on the floor. “What size are you? A small or medium?”

“A medium should be good,” Sally answered. She could wear a small but she preferred her shirts leave something to the imagination.

Cross stood back up and turned, tossing her a black t-shirt in the same motion. Sally caught it and stood up. She unfolded the shirt and held it up in front of her face. The front of the shirt contained the bar logo with the name of the bar, The Dog House, written in big white letters. She turned the shirt around and read the back out loud. “Forget the couch?” She frowned and looked questioningly at Cross.

“Didn’t your mom ever tell your dad he was in the doghouse and that he had to sleep on the couch?”

“Oh, okay, sorry. Got it now.” Sally felt her face flush.

“Alright, Sally. I’ll see you here tomorrow at three.”

Sally sat on the bench in the city park that was situated catty-corner from her apartment and across from the bar where she would now be working. The sun was warm on her skin and a slight breeze kissed her face. It was a beautiful spring day. She reached into her purse and pulled out a granola bar, opened it, and took a bite— eating alone… again. Sally really hoped that she would make some friends at her new job. With her parents gone, and having moved on the spur of the moment to a completely new place, she had no one but herself to talk to. Maybe she should get a cat. But that would just put her one step closer to being a crazy old cat lady. And everyone knows that one cat leads to another cat, and then another. Before she knew it she’d be eighty years old living alone with her cats, talking to them like they were people and imagining that they talk back. Then one day she’d drop dead and no one would find her body for weeks until the neighbors eventually started noticing a strange smell coming from the apartment above them. By the time the police kicked down her door to find her body, the cats, having gone unfed for three weeks, would’ve taken matters into their own hands and half of her face would’ve been eaten off. No, no, definitely not getting a cat.