Fighter: Wolves of Angels Rest, #9

By Elsa Jade

The hunger moon hangs in the night sky…

Malachi battled alongside the Villalobos wolves against the fanatical Kingdom Guard paramilitary to save imprisoned shapeshifters, but he has never truly felt at home in Angels Rest. Raised in the depths of the Russian taiga, his wolf is too wild to be tamed.

Sofia has lost everything, but she’ll fight to the death to keep her newborn son. Then Malachi offers her one night of protection she can’t refuse—and a passion she can’t understand. There’s a wildness in him that calls to her soul, but his secrets are darker than the violence she left behind.

Trust is hard, but the desire is undeniable, and both of them are hungry for a love like they’ve never known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Circle Ink
• Release date: May 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533735591

Book preview

Wolves of Angels Rest: Book 9

FIGHTER

Elsa Jade

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The hunger moon hangs in the night sky…

Malachi battled alongside the Villalobos wolves against the fanatical Kingdom Guard paramilitary to save imprisoned shapeshifters, but he has never truly felt at home in Angels Rest. Raised in the depths of the Russian taiga, his wolf is too wild to be tamed.

Sofia has lost everything, but she’ll fight to the death to keep her newborn son. Then Malachi offers her one night of protection she can’t refuse—and a passion she can’t understand. There’s a wildness in him that calls to her soul, but his secrets are darker than the violence she left behind.

Trust is hard, but the desire is undeniable, and both of them are hungry for a love like they’ve never known.

Copyright © 2016 by Elsa Jade

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as factual. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be scanned, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Wolves of Angels Rest

Elsa Jade

Get all the Wolves of Angels Rest

HERO

JOKER

ROGUE

WARRIOR

LOST WOLF

GHOST WOLF

CRY WOLF

FIGHTER

WISH UPON A WEREWOLF

Chapter 1

With any luck, they’d dump his body in the desert outside Las Vegas before dawn. He didn’t have all day for this shit.

Malachi Avdeyev always planned on getting dumped—hell, he’d made a career out of being left in crappy locations under sketchy circumstances—although it sucked that he’d have to get his ass whupped first.

Still, if the ass-whupping caught some baddies, so be it.

It had been a perfectly crazy few months working with the remnants of his old team to help the small town of Angels Rest fight off some anti-shifter zealots. The Kingdom Guard had been kidnapping and experimenting on shifters, aiming to turn them into brainwashed supersoldiers.

As if being a regular ol’ don’t-ask-don’t-tell werewolf soldier wasn’t hard enough. For once, Mal was glad he’d gotten out of the army when he had.

Even though a battlefield was the only place where he’d ever truly felt at home.

Those days were over. Forever. Working with LT and Diesel to destroy the Kingdom Guard had been like old times, but now Diesel had a gorgeous mate and LT was off running some private clandestine op of his own, leaving Mal alone and at loose ends.

Which was always when he got in the worst trouble.

To drown out that thought, he cranked up the radio in his beat-to-hell Caddy over the rumble of the big engine as he headed for the edge of Sin City.

Tonight’s ass-whupping would barely even rate in his history of bad decisions, since it was for a good cause. When they’d debriefed the Kingdom Guard prisoners, they’d learned that one of the abducted shifters—a bear named Cianán—had been taken after a bad night at the Cage Club.

Unconscious from his wounds, Cianán had been passed off by persons unknown to the Kingdom Guard bastards. When Malachi had talked to the reticent bear, they’d discussed who the baddies might be. All Cianán knew was that money had changed hands. Though the KGB had been pretty thoroughly dismantled—thanks to a few RPGs he’d personally launched through their windows—the chance there might be some loose ends still dangling had Mal’s inner predator longing to come out and play.

But first, he had to find the playground.

The Cage Club was an underground shifter fight club. Cianán said all the bored and violent young male shifters from Salt Lake to Tijuana knew about it.

There’s only one rule at Cage Club, Cianán had said.

Mal rolled his eyes. Let me guess. Don’t talk about it.

What? No. How would everyone know to go if we didn’t talk about it? No, the only rule is…no shifting.

What the hell kind of shifter fight club had a no-shifting rule? This club sucked already. And they apparently didn’t have any rules about not wasting their fighters on secret abductions, even though shifters and humans both were making fat cash betting on the fights.

But Malachi would set them straight.

After he got his ass whupped.

Cianán had heard about the Cage Club at a rat-trap diner on the outskirts of town. A particular class of miscreant favored the diner, he said, and someone there would know when and where the latest bouts would be held.

All Mal had to do was fight, lose, and get picked up by whoever thought a wounded shifter was fair game. Easy as pie.

Damn, now he wanted pie.

And lookie here, a diner. How convenient.

He spun the Caddy’s wheel, kicking up gravel as he turned into the parking lot. Some asshole pulling out honked when his misaligned headlights swept hungrily through the darkness.

Oh yeah, his kind of place.

The thick stink of grease and raw meat struck him like the first punch of the night—hurt so good—as he exited the Caddy. Flipping up the collar of his leather jacket against the bite of the February night, he followed his nose under the billboard, half illuminated by a flood light: Food Drink Go. How welcoming.

The light spilling out from the front row of windows was the finest in cheap fluorescent bulbs, and his wolf grumbled at the harsh glare. It wanted to hunt by the light of the moon.

Gotta find the trail first, he reminded the beast.

He took one more breath to settle the wolf—LT had taught him the trick of pushing the beast so deep even another shifter wouldn’t be sure what he was—and let himself into the diner.

He didn’t glance around. No sense giving himself away first thing. Instead, he strode toward the counter, his motorcycle boots thudding on the worn linoleum tile. He grabbed one of the laminated menus and slid onto a stool, grimacing at the tacky feel of the plastic in his hand.

He’d eaten actual rats, raw, but this sort of turned his stomach.

Good thing he wasn’t here for the food, just for the—

Hullo.

Sit wherever, the tasty brunette mouthful said. Oh wait. You already did. Well, make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back.

She was a waitress? Hell, she was just a wee thing. How could she carry that big tray with all those plates? She whisked across the room with the orders—giving him an excellent excuse to case the joint as he followed her path.

Six tables occupied. Half shifters, half human. There was a muffled quality to the discussions that told him all of them—even the humans—knew they could be overheard. Basically, nothing of interest to see or hear. Yet.

Except her.

Despite his control, the wolf in him stirred restlessly. He could clearly imagine its long nose poking where it wasn’t wanted.

And no wonder the wolf was hungry. The wee waitress had the bright, dark eyes and cheeks of a little mouse, plus the tawny skin.

The mustard yellow polyester skirt was ugly as hell, but when she leaned over to deposit the tray at the corner table, her ass was all lush woman. Her breasts, round and full as twin moons in her white button-down, would overflow even his big hands. Maybe fake? This was Vegas, after all. But the way she moved, quick and easy, made him think she wasn’t the sort to bother with fake, like she had other things to do.

Fuck the pie.

Mal’s wolf—and some even less mentionable parts of him—roused.

When she returned with the empty tray past his counter seat, he inhaled the scent of her, to mark her in his memory. But the heavy smell of boiling oil and the rank tang of produce a day or so past its use-by hid her unique perfume. Which reminded him to stifle his nosey nose and his other parts remorselessly. He was here for blood, not sex.

The wolf whined once in eagerness before going dark. It didn’t trust easily, especially surrounded by the trappings of the human world, so he was surprised at the ready forfeit. Maybe it was just waiting for the fight.

You see anything you like? She pointed at the menu at the same time she cocked her hip, and her voice was an uneasy mix of light flirtation and a hard note that said any flirting was strictly for tips.

Since she’d practically given him an invitation, he looked her over.

With the glossy coils of her brown hair bound back under a triangular kerchief, she looked younger than she was, and he already guessed she wasn’t old enough to drink legally. Her soft, dusky skin was the sort that wouldn’t show lines for a very long time, but there were cracks and shadows in her eyes that whispered of an old soul.

When he didn’t answer right away, a flush brightened her cheeks, and he sensed the wary acceleration of her pulse.

She might be only human, but she felt the beast.

I’ll come back… She took a step away.

He tucked the menu behind the salt and pepper shakers. What’s good here? He glanced down at her name tag. Sofia.

Her small, sturdy fingers fluttered over the tag, as if wanting to hide it, then she dropped her hand to her side. Nothing. She darted a glance over her shoulder toward the kitchen. But the coffee probably won’t kill you.

Considering he was searching for deadly good times, he didn’t care about the risk. I’ll take a cup, please. With sugar and cream. And a double order of the silver dollar pancakes. Extra whipped cream, if you don’t mind.

She shot him a disbelieving glance, but he just smiled at her with not too many teeth.

A childhood of raw rats had given him an appreciation for white sugar.

Not to mention, the wolf in a fight would burn through all those carbs like a flame through gunpowder.

After one more long, considering look, she scribbled out a ticket and disappeared through the doorway into the kitchen.

Mal took the chance to cast his senses around the diner again. One of the humans had left, but he’d heard the grind of massive gears and decided the man was a long-haul trucker stopped for the dubious fare. The other five tables were tucking into their meals as if they too had long nights ahead.

Would one of them be his ticket to mayhem?

Sofia slid an empty mug in front of him. The hairline fracture in the white ceramic was tinted with old caffeine stains, but the inside was clean enough. He hoped. She filled it most of the way. He dumped the ridiculously tiny pitcher of half-and-half into the cup and upended the larger shaker of sugar until the brimming beverage was the same luscious hue as her skin.

She watched with eyebrows arched. I could just get you a hot cocoa.

Nah. That wouldn’t be manly. Unless you have miniature marshmallows…?

She shook her head, and he shrugged.

Taking a sip of the coffee, he opined, Not bad—

She looked past him and bustled out with the decanter still in her hand. She made a circle of the tables, fetched one of the shifter groups their bill, collected money from one of the human groups with a pleasant good-night, and only returned when a bell in the kitchen chimed.

She slipped past him without a word or glance. Had he done something? Besides give off scary werewolf signals he apparently couldn’t hold back around her?

When she emerged from the kitchen with his plate, he let out a hungry grunt.

Her lips twitched. Syrup, honey, or jelly?

Yes please. And can I get a refill on the coffee too?

I’ll leave more room this time.

You know me so well already.

She delivered all the condiments he’d requested then fetched the decanter and topped him off, leaving room just as she’d promised. Already her gaze was circling the room. Like a trapped thing.

So, he said, unwilling to let her get away again. What’s to do for fun around here?

Nothing. Her brows furrowed. You want fun, go into the city. Here it’s quiet and boring.

As he ate his pancakes—even a rat-trap diner couldn’t screw up pancakes—he let his wolf out just a little to sense the room. Quiet, maybe, but tension simmered underneath. Only three tables were still occupied and they all smelled of barely leashed violence. As sweet and bad for you as cheap syrup.

No shifting, indeed.

The casinos only take your money, leave you high and dry, he said. That doesn’t seem like fun to me. Anyway, I was thinking of something with a little more action.

This time, the blush of color on her full cheeks wasn’t harried; it was pure fury. Her dark eyes crackled. I don’t know what you think you get with that order besides whipped cream, but—

To his shock, the wolf rolled for her. He flushed at its willing vulnerability. It never did that, not for anyone, ever. No, he stammered in surprise. I meant—

I know what your kind means, she snapped.

Ooh, the little mouse had teeth.

And what exactly did she mean by your kind?

She raged on, You guys are driving right on through, going nowhere, and yet you think I’ll just—

No. He had to summon up the wolf to growl the word, low and decisive. I don’t think that.

When she swallowed back the rest of her accusation and stared at him through narrowed eyes, he added in all honesty, Not that I wouldn’t abandon these pancakes in a hot second if you wanted me to.

I don’t want that, she said. I don’t want anything.

"Well, that’s just too bad. You should want something. He dragged another bite through the swirl of syrup, jelly, and whipped cream. I want someplace I can blow off some steam. He gave her a wry look. Before I just keep driving."

She shied away from him. Well, good luck with that. But you might as well burn it at the blackjack tables.

As she stalked away, he cursed himself for pushing her too hard. But he’d thought the waitress would be a likely link to the Cage Club.

Maybe with too many shifters going missing, the club had shut down. Although he found it hard to believe that a no-holds-barred fight club would even notice what happened to the losing fighters. Maybe he’d just have to be a little louder about what he wanted.

He wolfed down the rest of the pancakes. Literally wolfed down. He let the beast off its leash in his consciousness, and it came with a quickness, hungry and aroused.

When only a little pool of syrup remained, a motionless figure in the kitchen doorway caught his attention. He eyed the cook without raising his head.

The lean, graying man stalked across the floor. Quit bugging Sofia.

Still, Mal didn’t raise his head, giving the cook hard eye contact until the coyote shifter dropped his gaze. Was just asking her a question.

The shifter’s stained Vans squeaked on the linoleum as he shuffled his feet. I heard you telling her you were looking for…action.

Ah, so