Dominant Territory

By Cora Zane

The moment Libby steps into the Moonlight Run with her girlfriends, she realizes they've made a serious mistake. One look at the clientele and she knows this is no place to have a ladies’ night out. The backwoods bar is isolated for a very good reason—they cater to local werewolves on the eve of the change.

Drake never thought himself the type to consider a human for a mate. One look at Libby and his heart is lost. She entered into his territory, and now he'll stop at nothing to claim her as his mate—even if he has to fight to keep her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cora Zane
• Release date: Mar 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370250394

Cora Zane

Cora Zane is probably best known as the author of the Werekind Werewolf Series of e-books. She began writing professionally in 2005 and has since published over twenty stories through multiple publishers, including Cleis Press. Her erotica work has been called "Surprisingly Kinky" by Library Journal, and a "Charasmatic Standout" by Publisher's Weekly. She is also a former P.E.A.R.L. finalist and a winner of the Freya Award. Primarily an erotic romance and erotica author, she has also published horror and slipstream stories in various anthologies. You can visit her online at www.corazane.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

T hat’s right, ladies. Pass it around. Choose your poison.

Even though she didn’t really want one, Libby French took one of the bubbly flutes of golden champagne from the tray Angie Bates carried.

Where Libby preferred a simple, down-to-earth gathering with pizza and sodas, her fiery redhead friend preferred dinner parties and playing hostess. And Angie was damn good at it, too. Straight out of college, she had built a thriving party planning business hinging on the local country club set.

While champagne and heels wasn’t something Libby would have chosen for herself on a night like tonight, or any other night, if she was perfectly honest with herself, she admired the effort her friend had put into the evening on her behalf. That being the case, she studied her glass of champagne shimmering beneath the warm, amber toned lighting in Angie’s stylish, brass and glass living room and tried to get into the party-girl spirit.

"Since this is supposed to be an evening of celebration, I’m going to propose a toast. Cheryl Atkins flicked her black bangs from her eyes and raised her glass of champagne in salute. To our dear friend, Libby, who could teach us all something about men. How to love them, and how to leave them."

Here, here! crowed Angie as she placed the serving tray out of the way on a console table and picked up a glass for herself.

On this very day one year ago, Cheryl went on, Libby managed to ditch her evil, ex‐husband Mark—the lying, cheating, spawn of Satan—and rejoin us once again in the glorious land of single babe‐hood. Cheryl tipped her champagne glass toward Libby in tribute. Welcome back, Miss French.

Yes, welcome back. Angie toasted her.

Happy anniversary, Robin Holmes added in her agreeable, soft spoken way.

Thanks, ladies, Libby murmured, then they all clinked glasses across the coffee table. Cheers.

Cheers, Cheryl echoed.

For a silent moment, the four women sipped champagne, faces aglow, grinning at one another over their drinks.

Libby went along with it, forcing a smile even though she didn’t really feel it in her soul. All day she’d batted down a nagging twinge of sadness, even though in her head she knew she should be at peace with the divorce by now.

She didn’t love Mark anymore, and without a doubt, she was glad all the nasty dealings were behind her, but a part of her still mourned the loss. Yes, he’d been a less‐than‐perfect husband, and his betrayal had hurt her deeply. But at the same time, she’d been with him since high school. Losing him after so many years was a bit like losing her left arm.

Ah, this is the life, Angie said on a sigh. You might not realize it, Libby, but in the end, you got it all—the big wedding, your freedom, and a handsome divorce settlement. Now all you need is some hot, young stud willing to keep you fucked down all the time and you’ll have it made.

Cheryl made a face. Give me a break. This is the new millennia, girl. We chicks don’t need a man.

So says the old maid, Angie quipped.

Old maid, my ass, grumbled Cheryl. It’s the truth, and I can prove it.

Angie leaned forward, green eyes burning in challenge. Be my guest.

They all watched as Cheryl reached under the edge of Angie’s suede couch and pulled out a long gold box with a fat red bow on top. She showed it off with a wave of her hand and stuck her tongue out at Angie.

Robin’s brow furrowed. When the heck did you put that under there?

Cheryl ignored Robin and tossed the box onto Libby’s lap. Happy Divorce Day, doll face.

Wow, what’s this?

Just a little something I picked up for you. Go ahead. Open it.

Libby hesitated only a second or two before she stripped away the ribbon and flipped open the top of the box.

Well, well. Angie’s auburn brows went up. It’s big, and it’s pink.

Whoa, said Robin. Her hazel eyes had gone wide. That’s one huge honkin’ dildo!

Libby smirked and held up the floppy rubber dong. She gave it a wiggle. Gee, thanks, Cheryl. Now what am I supposed to do with this thing?

Cheryl choked on her drink. Oh god. Please don’t tell me I have to explain it to you!

Robin and Angie fell out laughing, and in retaliation, Libby smacked Cheryl on the thigh with the oversized dildo. That’s not what I meant and you know it, be‐otch.

Cheryl burst out laughing, spraying champagne all over herself. She coughed, then cupped her had over her mouth as she sucked in a calming breath. When she had recovered, she grinned over at Angie and Robin. "You gotta remind me to have a party like this on my divorce day anniversary."

"If you ever get married," Angie scoffed.

That’s a big if, Cheryl agreed.

You two are the height of compassion, Libby said with a sniff. They all knew Cheryl had zero intention of ever tying the knot. She’d been clear about that ever since they were teenagers, and so far, she’d kept to her game plan.

Even though her friend was being a tad insensitive, Libby knew Cheryl didn’t really mean any harm in what she said. Still, the words stung nonetheless.

Cheryl gulped down the last of her champagne then leaned forward and set her empty glass onto the coffee table. Mark was a real jerk, she said. She reached out, bracelets jangling, and patted Libby’s arm. He lost a good thing.

You know what? Let’s go out, Angie suggested. We’ll have a few drinks and dance on the tables. It’ll be like old times.

Hells yeah, said Cheryl, climbing to her feet. Her dangerously high heels made her legs look six feet long. She tugged down her ultra short skirt. Count me in.

Once Cheryl was up, Angie got up, too. The curvy redhead smoothed down the front of her sleeveless blouse and looked down at her shoes—lavender, kitten‐heel sandals—and twisted her foot appreciatively. I knew there was a reason I got a pedicure.

Libby frowned. A private party was one thing, but going out on the town? She wasn’t sure she was up to it. I don’t know, guys—

Come on, Libby. Don’t be a poot. Cheryl gestured to Robin who was also getting up. Look, even the resident party pooper is going—aren’t you Robin?

Robin looked up, a deer caught in the headlights.

See, she’s going, Cheryl said. Think of your cool girl reputation. You can’t let yourself be bested by a prude, Libby.

Robin’s brows furrowed. Hey, watch it. She thumped Cheryl with a throw pillow from the sofa.

This is a great idea, and all, Libby said, brushing off Cheryl’s teasing, but if we’re going out, who’s driving?

Not me, said Robin. She stopped trying to brush the wrinkles out of her brown dress slacks and held up her empty champagne glass.

Cheryl sighed. I guess it’ll have to be you, Libby. I’d offer, but I’ve already got a raging buzz.

Well, gee, thanks for volunteering my services, Libby said under her breath.

Oh, shut up griping, Angie drawled as she and reached into the coat closet for her purse. Your Jeep is the closest thing we broke bitches can get to a convertible, anyway. As if we’d actually go out riding in anything else.

Riding with the top down is gonna mess up our hair, Robin complained.

Angie rolled her eyes. If it bugs you that much, wear a hat.

Cheryl laughed at Robin’s suddenly red face and stepped around the coffee table. Come on, dead weight, she said as she grabbed Libby’s arm and pulled her to her feet. Let’s put Mr. Penis away for now. She took the floppy rubber dong from Libby’s hand and tossed it on the couch. You can take him home and play with him later. Until then, let’s go out and have some fun.

Twenty minutes later, while driving along the downtown strip, Libby had to admit it felt pretty good to be out and about. It was like being in college all over again—riding with the girls, the night wind stirring their hair.

Smiling to herself, she listened to Robin and Angie sing off-key in the backseat, while Cheryl pointed at the sights and called out to people they knew along the main drag.

Silver was a small town with not much to see or do even on a Friday night. Most people looking for fun drove around town, or hit the highway and travelled the thirty some-odd miles to Dover for entertainment.

After all the years she’d wasted in L.A. pretending to be happy with Mark while he furthered his career, Libby had no trouble admitting to herself just how much she’d missed times like this—the simple act of getting in the Jeep and driving around at night.

On their third pass through downtown, Libby turned in front of the courthouse and left the main drag instead of following the midtown loop. She didn’t have a destination in mind, but she wanted a change of scenery. They were heading toward the edge of town when Cheryl shouted over the whipping wind.

Where’re we going now?

I don’t know yet, Libby answered. She switched the headlights over from dim to bright once they were away from in-town traffic. Hey, Robin. Earlier you mentioned something about there being a bar out on the old 31.

Yeah. At least, I think there is, Robin said. I don’t know exactly how to get to it, though.

The old 31? Angie asked. Where’s that?

It’s a county road northeast of town. Libby explained. She glanced at Robin again in the rear view mirror and shouted, What’s the bar called, Robin? Maybe I’ve heard of it.

I’m not really sure.

Is it Shooter’s, maybe? Libby had heard of Shooters. She passed it on the way to deliver flowers to the Silver Haven Nursing Home at least three times a week.

No, it’s not Shooters. It’s something else—something like River Run, or Creek Runner. Robin’s sandy brown curls danced around her face in the wind. I can’t remember the exact name, but it’s something outdoorsy sounding.

Libby shook her head. She’d never heard of anyplace like that.

Kind of a weird place to have a bar when you think about it, Cheryl chimed in. If you follow the 31 out of town for the full stretch, it leads up into the mountains. Rough country.

Maybe that’s why we’ve never heard of this place, Robin said. I’ve never gone out much further than Miller’s Landing—I’ve never needed to. I couldn’t tell you what’s out there beyond that.

Angie brushed her