Channing curses and kicks the kitchen trash can. Not a hard kick, but he’s a wolf, so the metal canister goes flying.
Deke catches it and frowns at the dent in its side.
“Aww, Channing,” Lance groans. “That’s the third one this month.”
“Sorry. This sucks.” With his ruffled hair and scowl, Channing looks like a three-year-old denied a lollipop. But I get the feeling.
“It does suck,” I say. “I’d love nothing more than to greenlight an op. Kick down Dieter’s door and bring him in. But we still don’t know why or where Dieter got those silver bullets. We gotta play the long game.”
There’s a little more grumbling, but I know they get the message. I clear my throat. “Another thing. We’re on lockdown, starting now. No one comes in or out of HQ without my leave.”
Lance perks up at this. His wolf’s in protective mode because he and his mate are expecting a child. “What’s the threat?”
“Dieter knew about you,” I tell him. I was holding this information back because he had enough going on with trying to get his mate back. “And our family, our past. He asked me if I wanted revenge.”
Lance whirls and kicks the trashcan Deke just set down. The container goes banging down the hall. It’s hell on the floor, but it makes a satisfying sound.
“Do we need to move our mates in here?” Deke asks. His whole body is tense. He looks like he’s ready to run out the front door and head to Sadie’s townhouse ASAP.
“Not at this junction. If I get more intel, you’ll be the first to know. For now, just notify me if you’re coming or going. Keep your phone on at all times. And no visitors. Obviously, your mates are still welcome.” I glance at Lance and Deke.
I still can’t get used to the idea of half our pack having mates. We went from a light, tight team of soldiers to… something very different. More pack-like. More like a family, which makes my wolf nearly crazy with the need to protect the weaker, fragile members—two human females and an unborn pup. I mean, fuck, what if it had been Lance who was shot with silver and what if he hadn’t made it? He would have orphaned the child he hasn’t even met.
Unthinkable. But I have to think about it and plan for everything. It’s my job, my role. It’s what makes me an Alpha.
“No more murdering vegetables,” I say to Channing. “I’ll pick up something from the Grille.” The biggest perk of owning a restaurant— free takeout. And now we can buy steak and beer wholesale.
“What do we eat tomorrow?” Deke asks. He’s retrieved the metal trash can, which is now so dented up, it’s useless.
“I’ll figure it out.” I beckon for him to toss me the trash can, and when he does, I catch it and crumple it into a ball. Not the most elegant use of my shifter strength, but it’s satisfying. I pretend the metal is Gabriel Dieter’s head.
When I’m done, the trash can is a whorl of twisted metal, good for nothing except maybe to be used as a nice, heavy paperweight.
“I could try bacon and eggs,” Channing is musing.
I throw the crumbled ball at his head. He catches it easily, and I point a stern finger at him. “No more cooking, soldier. Nothing but toast. That’s an order.”
3
Adele
I pull up at the Grille and angle my rearview mirror to put some lipgloss on. Rafe Lightfoot may get under my skin with his drill sergeant confidence and manner, but I’ve caught him looking me up and down on the nights my girl squad goes out with his crew. I’ve checked his tight ass out plenty of times. There’s a little sizzle between us on the rare occasions our eyes meet. We can’t stand each other, but we have chemistry. And I guess if I’m sinking low enough to ask him for a job, I might as well use the only weapon I have left.
I jump out of my old pickup and rearrange my scarf against the cold wind blowing down from Taos Mountain. Inside the Grille, a twenty-something blonde with that hippie-granola-Taos look calls out, “Welcome, I’ll be right with you,” as she buzzes into the kitchen. The dinner crowd is just starting to gather—half the tables are full for the casual burger and fries fare the Grille has to offer.
Ugh. This is so not my scene—not that I’m judging it. I love a good burger. But Rafe doesn’t need a chef, he needs a line cook. I don’t know why he even hinted at me working here.
Unless he just wants a chance to give me orders. The big, domineering jerk.
This isn’t going to work. I pivot in my high heeled boots to exit and run right into a big barrel chest.
“Adele.” Rafe catches my elbows to steady me as I bounce off his immovable form.
I’m more flustered than a misstep calls for, but it’s only because my nerves were already ragged over asking Rafe for a job, and now that I’ve decided I don’t actually want the job, I feel somehow caught.
“Rafe,” I manage to say. Don’t be nervous. Imagine him naked.
Trouble is, I imagine Rafe naked far too much.
He’s still holding my elbows, standing far too close. Rafe’s not as Hollywood good-looking as his brother Lance, who recently knocked up my friend Charlie. His hair is darker. His eyes are green. Lance is charming in that laidback, lazy smile kind of way. Rafe is the opposite. No charm. Definitely not laidback. There’s a ruggedness and ferocity about him that makes being around him feel terribly dangerous.
Dangerous, intense, and… exciting.
He’s the kind of guy you’d want on your side, not against it. Last week, when my business partner turned up dead, Charlie got kidnapped, and I was picked up by the police for questioning, I learned exactly how powerful it is to have a guy like him in my court.
So I’m already beholden to Rafe.
Something I hate. Don’t trust a man …
“I—um—I was just leaving.”
“You were?” His brows go down, gaze sweeps over me. “It looks like you just got here.” His eyes snag on my high heeled boots. “You walk in the snow in those?”
“Yes?” Why did I make that sound like a question? Something about his surly black brows makes me uncertain. I clear my throat and try again. “Yes, of course.”
“You need to be more careful. Those boots aren’t good in the snow.” And there it is, the most annoying thing about Rafe. He orders everyone around. The fact that he’s always in fatigue pants and a gray or army green Henley doesn’t lessen his drill sergeant vibe. Neither does the way he stands and looks down on everyone, like a general inspecting his troops and finding us all wanting. I think it’s great he had a military career—when I first met him, I thanked him for his service—but he’s not the boss of me!
I’m tempted to declare that and stomp my boots like I’m four, but that won’t help him take me seriously. Or land me a job.
“Are you meeting someone?” Rafe asks.
“No. Um, yes. Ah—” I shake my head. I’m on the spot here, not sure whether to flee or beg. Neither idea appeals.
Of course, he doesn’t make it easy for me. He releases my elbows to put his hands on his hips, like I’m in trouble, and now I have to answer to him.
Screw this. I can’t work for him.