Home > Gentry (Wolves of Winter's Edge #1)(6)

Gentry (Wolves of Winter's Edge #1)(6)
Author: T.S. Joyce

Rangeley was quicksand to a roamer like him. He couldn’t get stuck. Wouldn’t get stuck. Already he could feel the cold, dead claws of his destiny clamping onto his ankle, and he needed to buck them off as fast as he could.

Blaire, Blaire, with the wild red hair. She was funny, too. Didn’t have a filter. Said what came to her mind. He liked that. No games. And when he’d caught her sniffing the air like she was a wolf, like she was a creature of the night like him, he’d found her so damn amusing. And so beautiful—eyes closed, shimmery make-up glistening in the soft light, dark eyelashes resting on cheeks that had turned rosy from the cold or a blush. He hoped it was a blush. If she blushed easily, he could tell when he shocked her. He could play games and see how far he could push her before she pushed back. Wolf games, but with a human. Cat and mouse. Dog and cat. Big bad wolf and little red. He forced himself to stop smiling. That was a fucked-up thought. He wouldn’t be the one trying to gobble her up. He needed to get her out of Rangeley and out of his head as soon as possible. She could stay the night, but tomorrow he had to figure out a way to make her leave.

Boner tamed, Gentry shoved his door open and grabbed his jacket on the passenger’s seat. This was the act. He shrugged into the thick winter coat like he needed it, and like he didn’t run hot as a furnace, so the humans in this town didn’t pay him any extra attention.

After he slammed the door closed, Gentry jogged across the parking lot, his hands shoved into his pockets. The second he yanked open the door, though, he regretted choosing the Four Horsemen for Blaire’s dinner. The stink of werewolf hit him like a wrecking ball.

A soft snarl clawed its way up the back of his throat as he scanned the room. Clearly, Rhett had chased the humans from the bar since it was all supes. Fuck. Everyone was gathered around the bar, having a pack meeting probably, but had all stopped talking and were now twisted around, staring back at him. Most of them he recognized. Some of them he was happy to see again, some of them not. It was an odd sensation seeing his old pack, yet everything was different. Everyone was older, harder. There were no smiles like there used to be. Only snarled-up lips and threatening growls.

He was other now.

“Gentry Striker,” Rhett called out from behind the bar where he was leaning on locked arms. “You come here for the same fate I gave your dad?”

Gentry wanted to kill him. He wanted to do it slowly. He wanted to watch him gasp for air and whimper in pain and bleed out on the floor in front of everyone. He wanted Rhett to die looking at his face. He wanted to avenge Dad, but that wasn’t how shit worked for werewolves. He was supposed to get over it instead, move on, find his place in a pack or as a rogue, let Rhett keep his alpha victory.

But all Gentry could think of was Dad lying on the floor with Rhett’s ugly wolf shredding him, and he wanted revenge so bad his mouth watered and tasted like blood.

But it was him versus the Bone-Ripper Pack, and he was a more careful hunter than that, so he exposed his neck like a good little werewolf and made his way slowly toward the to-go stand near the kitchen.

Mila was there, pretty as ever. Timid as ever. He was kind of surprised she was still living in this town after Dad died. He’d protected her. Now she would be a piñata for a bully like Rhett. He didn’t do well with submissives. He never had.

“It’s good to see you again,” Mila whispered, her chin dropped to her chest, hands shaking as she opened up a computer screen behind the counter. He’d almost cared for the dainty dark-haired beauty once, back when he’d believed in that destiny shit. His life could’ve been laid out like a straight-line road map. Stay here, choose Mila as a mate, have a half dozen pups, take the pack when Dad was ready to give it up, petrify like an old gnarled tree.

Mila had never called to his wolf enough to keep in him this place, though.

No one had.

He forced a smile, the pack in his peripheral, always at the edge of his vision because survivors didn’t turn their back on danger like that. “It’s good to see you, too.” He almost meant it. He’d never planned on seeing any of these people again.

Gentry put in his order and sat on the last barstool. None of the wolves were talking, just watching. Every hair on his body had electrified, but tucking tail and running would only send them after him faster. Posturing was everything in a pack.

Slowly, Gentry took off his jacket, reached over the bar, pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam and a shot glass, poured one, and slammed it. He looked Rhett directly in his stupid fucking eyes and growled, “What?”

“You lost? Pack meeting, and you weren’t invited because you’re not pack. In fact,” Rhett barked out, “you’re the bloodline of the defeated last alpha, so I have a right to snuff you out of existence right here and now.”

Gentry arched his eyebrow. “I’d dare you to challenge me, but I don’t want the pack. I’m here to take care of my dad’s shit, and I’ll be gone as soon as I possibly can. Wasn’t really my choice coming back, Rhett.”

“You could’ve let me know you were in town. That’s the respectful thing to do—”

“That would imply,” Gentry said loudly, “that I have respect for you. You aren’t my alpha. I don’t have to do shit for you.” Gentry held his gaze as he replaced the bottle of Jim Beam behind the counter.

“Frank’s rushing your order,” Mila said breathlessly from the other side of the bar.

“Mila!” Rhett barked out, like she’d done something wrong.

   
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