Her Viking Wolf: 50 Loving States, Colorado

By Theodora Taylor

"I'm engaged to a perfect millionaire, but this time-traveling Viking werewolf says I'm coming home with him!"
When Chloe Adams was four, her shiftless shifter parents abandoned her on the side of the road. But now she’s reinvented herself as a DIY domestic goddess, and she’s engaged to the most eligible alpha in Colorado –- that is until a huge, red-haired, time-traveling Viking werewolf shows up to claim her as his fated mate.
 Wait… what?!?!
"This was diamond of a download!!! A must-read if there ever was one!" - 5 Star Amazon Review

READER WARNING:  This smoking-hot romance contain jaw-dropping twists and turns, sizzling sex scenes, and nothing less than the adventure of a lifetime. HER VIKING WOLF has become a fan favorite, but should only be read by those who like their Vikings red-haired and red-hot! 
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And don’t forget to check out the other books in the Alpha Kings series!****

Her Viking Wolf
Wolf and Punishment
Wolf and Prejudice
Wolf and Soul
Her Viking Wolves

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theodra Taylor
• Release date: Sep 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780984919321

Book preview

Chapter One

S O have you thought about what you’re going to wear on your first heat night? Rafe asked Chloe as they climbed up King’s Trail, their boots crunching in the freshly driven snow.

Despite the frigid mountain air, Chloe’s cheeks went hot with embarrassment. No, she answered, keeping her voice as neutral as possible, so as not to betray how uncomfortable this subject made her. Have you?

Rafe slid her the most wicked of grins. I’m thinking red lace, maybe some of those black garters. If you give me your measurements, I can put in an order online and have exactly what I want to see you in sent over to your place.

At that moment, Chloe was grateful for the darkness of her skin, because she could feel her initial blush spreading over her entire body. And this despite the fact she was wearing little more than her favorite hand-knitted sweater over one of the many long prairie dresses she’d also made herself and favored even when she wasn’t filming episodes of Black Mountain Woman. Why did having these kinds of conversations with Rafe always make her so uneasy? He wasn’t just her fiancé, he was also her best friend—really her only truly close friend offline—and she’d become accustomed to bringing all of her problems to him.

But of course, she couldn’t tell him how uncomfortable it made her to talk with him about anything of a sexual nature. Was this how all she-wolves who hadn’t gone into heat felt about the subject of sex? If she were a normal person, she would go to the internet with her problem. Find a forum of similar women with a similar issue. Or maybe she’d consult one of her Black Mountain Woman fans. Many of them had come to feel like real friends over the three years she’d hosted her blog and YouTube show, and she knew at least a few of them had navigated their way around sticky relationship issues.

However, the North American Lupine Council had strictly forbidden talking on the internet about anything involving their species. It was bad enough, in their opinion, that interest in werewolves was at an all time high these days, with everything from books to movies being made about their supposedly mythical race. Better not to fuel the frenzy with a blog or forum that any non-paranormal could happen across.

Besides, even if she were able to reach out to other she-wolves on line, she doubted she would find much commiseration. There were only a few hundred alpha wolves in the entire world, and Rafe Nightwolf, the alpha prince of Colorado, had chosen her, a nobody she-wolf who had literally been abandoned at the side of the road outside their shifter town.

Rafe also happened to be ridiculously hot, with his Native American father’s high cheekbones and long, sharp nose, softened by the light brown eyes and toasted brown skin he’d inherited from his Latina mother. When he’d proposed to her in front of everyone at their high school graduation, the other young she-wolves in their class had only been half-joking about how jealous they were. Any other she-wolf would kill to have a werewolf as good-looking and well off as Rafe ask for her hand in marriage.

He was also kind and had proven himself to be incredibly patient. So far he’d waited over six years to consummate their relationship, since North American Lupine Council law forbade marrying or even mating with a she-wolf who hadn’t yet had her first heat. Most she-wolves went into heat between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one, which was why female wolves tended to marry and start their families rather young by modern standards.

However, Chloe had turned twenty-five a couple of months ago, and even Rafe’s seemingly infinite patience was showing signs of wearing thin. He’d been snapping at her more and more lately for little things like wearing her prairie dresses to formal events and spending too much time working on her Black Mountain Woman shows. He’d also begun bringing up their heat night whenever they were alone together, imagining out loud what they would do and how they would do it. And though she’d had six years to get used to the idea, and had even watched a few porn movies in the hopes it would jump start her into heat, she still couldn’t bring herself to talk about it or even fully imagine it in her own head.

"Hey, did I tell you? I’m working on a chicken and fennel recipe for the next episode of Black Mountain Woman, she said, covering up her rather unsubtle subject change with a bright smile. Maybe I’ll have it ready in time for the wedding."

He gave her a quizzical look, You’re marrying an alpha prince. You can’t cook for your own wedding.

Why not?

What would people say? he asked. Listen, Clo, you know I love you and I support your weird hobby as much as I can, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. We’ll have people flying in from all over the world to attend our wedding. You can’t serve them homemade chicken and fennel.

Chloe opened her mouth to argue. First of all, he didn’t really support her Black Mountain Woman projects. She’d garnered hundreds of thousands of fans over the years with her from-scratch recipes, DIY crafting projects, and organic cleaning tips. She was also able to support herself off the money she made from advertisers on her blog and her YouTube revenue stream. But her own fiancé referred to what she did for a living as a weird hobby. One, she knew without having to discuss it, he expected her to give up as soon as they married.

But before she could point out any of this, he asked, "Why is it every time I bring up our heat night, you change the subject to Black Mountain Woman?"

Um… She scrambled to come up with a good excuse, but could only produce a weak, Do I?

He regarded her with cool eyes. Yeah, you do.

Silence descended as they continued to press up the mountain. Many of her fellow wolves loved to hike King’s Trail, but Chloe had never seen the appeal of walking up a steep precipice just because. Her glutes were already starting to protest this rare trip to the portal, a gate through space and time, which was located on a plateau about two miles up the mountain that bordered Wolf Springs. According to their lookout, Jeb, who had a cabin nearby, it flashed thirty minutes ago, which meant they had a visitor. Maybe even one from the past.

Alpha princes acted in a somewhat vice presidential role for their pack until they inherited the throne, and though she hated making the somewhat arduous trip to the portal, greeting the werewolves who had come through it had been one of her favorite duties so far as Rafe’s future wife.

Technically wolves used the portal for one of two reasons. The first was to punish wolves, who had committed acts so heinous they were banished, not only from their communities but also from their own space and time. However, the last recorded instance of that happening had been when Rafe’s own mother, Lacey, was the future alpha princess. Lacey still occasionally told the story of how a werewolf had come through the gate, still-shifted and frothing white at the mouth. The crazed thing had leapt at her and Rafe’s dad barely had time to pull his gun and put a silver bullet in its head before it got to her.

To this day, the king still made them carry tranquilizer guns when they made these trips, even though a banished wolf hadn’t come through the gate in almost three decades. No, these days, most of their visitors were using the gate for its second intended purpose: to find one’s fated mate.

Fated mates spells had fallen out of fashion in modern times, and most had been lost to the winds of history. But about once a year a she-wolf from another place and/or time, came through the portal. These she-wolves were usually at two ends of a rather extreme spectrum: silly romantics, who hadn’t fully considered the repercussions of a spell that could literally rip them out of their current space and time, or women who were well-ahead of their time or couldn’t fit in with their own societies. They’d had a pre-Civil War southern debutante come through the gate the year before, but prior to that, they’d gotten one suffragette and one modern she-wolf from a middle-eastern country that put serious restrictions on women’s rights.

She glanced at the tranquilizer gun, which she kept hidden in a vintage leather holster at her hip, and wished she could just get rid of it altogether. Holsters and prairie dresses didn’t really go together.

Who do you think it will be? she asked, when they were about five minutes away from the gate. She was once again changing the subject, but she hoped he wouldn’t call her on it this time.

Rafe shrugged. You never know.

That was when they heard a groan.

Did you hear that? Chloe asked, dropping her voice and wishing she’d brought a first aid kit. Do you think she was hurt? The portal spits people out so hard.

No, Rafe pulled out his tranq gun. It sounded male.

They carefully approached the portal, an invisible rift in space and time that a lycanthrope could feel but couldn’t quite see, unless it was sucking a wolf in or spitting one out. And indeed, they soon spotted a large figure passed out in the snow and facing away from them.

Definitely male, Chloe thought. The top half of his torso was uncovered, revealing a back that was hard with muscle, even in repose. A pair of leather pants covered his legs, which were as thick as tree trunks, and probably just as hard if they matched his back. No, even though long, red hair fell to his shoulders in thick, tangled waves, Chloe could sense his maleness from his smell alone, an intense mix of wood, animal blood, and testosterone.

Stay behind me, Rafe told her. He edged closer to the semi-unconscious shifter and used one booted foot to turn him over.

Chloe did as she was told but even from behind Rafe, she could see the man had a hard and serious face, half of which was covered with a thick, red beard. His hand was clutched tightly around a sword, which featured an ivory grip, a large iron wolf at the top of its hilt, and a double-edged steel blade. It was coated in blood, and looked wickedly sharp. Luckily the werewolf, who had been on the verge of unconsciousness when he groaned earlier, seemed to be completely unconscious now.

She spotted a large rock near where his head now lie. He must have hit his head on that rock when he came out of the portal. Maybe we should move it. I’d hate for the next person who came through to get hurt, especially if it’s a she-wolf.

Check the gnarly beard on this guy, Rafe said, lowering his gun. He looks like a Viking, right?

Chloe stepped from behind Rafe to fully observe the unconscious man. He’s either a Viking or a very strange rock star, and I’ve never seen a rock star with—

Suddenly the maybe-Viking’s eyes popped open. And that was all the warning they got before he yanked on Rafe’s leg, pulling him to the ground and jumping to his own feet. As Rafe’s tranq gun went flying across the snow, the red-haired man pinned Rafe with a large bare foot planted squarely in the middle of his chest. And his eyes blazed with a warrior’s fury as he raised his vicious-looking sword above his head with the blade pointed downward. Chloe didn’t know a lot about sword fighting, but even she could tell this was the preparation for a killing blow.

No! she screamed, raising her own tranq gun and pointing it at the mad wolf.

He paused and looked toward her, pinning her with a piercing gray gaze that looked like it had been fashioned from the same material as his steel sword.

Chloe just hoped to the heavens above that whatever time period this wolf was from, he understood what a gun was—even if hers technically wasn’t a real one.

Put the sword down or I’ll shoot, she said, hating that she couldn’t keep her voice from trembling as she issued this command.

She half-expected him to kill Rafe then come after her. He’d pinned Rafe so quickly, he’d probably be able to do away with them both before she managed to squeeze the trigger. But he didn’t kill Rafe or her. He just stood there staring, his eyes flinty under the midday sun.

Several seconds ticked by, but he did not look away.

And eventually he said something to her in a thick, coarse language that sounded a little like German, but she couldn’t be sure. Oh God, he probably really was a Viking, she realized.

Um, she said, wishing now that she hadn’t chosen to take three years of high school Spanish as opposed to a language that might actually be useful when dealing with a possible Viking werewolf. Her mind fumbled around for any German she knew, and started spewing every single word and phrase, in the hopes something would stick. "Dankeshein? Um…neinn…sprechen sie Englisch? Um…um, oh my God, Auf Wiendersehn?"

He squinted at her. Then to her great alarm, he lowered the sword and came stalking straight toward her.

Um, stop. Stop, please! Stay right where you are! How did you say stop in German? She had no idea.

In the end, she squeaked, squeezing the trigger, and her eyes shut at the same time.

She heard a hard thump and when she opened her eyes, the maybe-Viking was lying crumpled on the ground with a dart lodged in his shoulder, already rendered unconscious by the fast-acting sleep agent it administered.

Beyond him, she could see Rafe, now sitting up and shaking his head. Chloe…

She re-harnessed her tranquilizer gun. I know, I know, tranq the wolf first, ask questions later.

Especially when he has a sword pointed at my freaking neck. Her normally indulgent fiancé didn’t look too happy with the Viking or her at that moment. And do I really need to tell you not to close your eyes when you shoot?

Chapter Two

Many centuries ago…

F ENRIS, I would have words with you, his aunt, Bera, said. The small woman did not wait for his assent before falling in step beside him, and he had to switch his bloodied sword to his other hand to keep from staining her clothes with it.

Even his respect for his aunt’s advanced years could not keep the terseness he felt out of his voice when he answered, Whatever it is can wait until I have washed in the lake. I am fresh from the hunt.

With pursed lips, she pressed a linen rag, with words written across it in charcoal ink, into his hand.

What is this? he asked, though he had a feeling he already knew. His lack of a mate was a subject well-visited by his aunt, even more so since he had reached twenty and seven winters.

I have bid you too many times to seek your fated mate. You have not heeded me, mayhap because I am but a decrepit she-wolf. Thusly, I have put the spell down for you on this scrap, in the hopes you would bestow joy upon my heart by speaking it as I have written it.

He looked from the spell to his aunt who despite her gray hair, much smaller size, and supposed decrepitude managed to keep up with his fast pace. You realize I will disappear if I speak these words on my tongue?

I have put to words the return spell on the reverse side of the rag. You and your fated mate have only to speak them as one and you will be returned to this place.

He held the rag out to his aunt. You are dear to me, sister of my father, but you try my patience with this business. I will claim a mate of my own accord. I do not wish to be fated.

His aunt clenched her hands by her side, refusing to take the linen back from him. Your sires were fated.

Yes, and this be the reason I wish not to be, he answered.

Your mother and father were very happy before…

She did not finish, but she did not have to. Fenris knew the rest. His sires were very happy, until his mother died giving birth to him, before his father was reduced to a husk of his former self in his grief.

I do not wish a fated mate, he repeated. Take this back. I have no use for it.

A knowing smile played on his aunt’s lips. We shall see. This winter has been cold and dark. You will eventually want for a mate to warm your bed. Why not put yourself in the hands of the gods?

His aunt was the last person he wanted to talk to on this subject, even if she was correct about the state of his bed. He had not lain with a woman since his visit to the human market to the south of them before the last summer moon. There, he and his unmated pack members could lie with human women willing to trade their services for the furs, iron, small weapons, and the other items his village was known to sell.

Aunt Bera, the only thing I want for now is my soap.

She stopped walking. And you may have it. I will take my leave, but will leave you with the spell. She then turned and hurried back toward their village before he could offer any further protest.

He balled the fabric up inside his hand. Having stripped down to bare feet and his leather hunting trousers in preparation for his bath, he had nothing with which to pin it to his clothing. However, he also did not want to leave it lying around for any young she-wolf to find. She-wolves could be silly when it came to matters of the heart, and even though most of them had no knowing of written words, they might seek someone who did to help them speak the words. In the past, his aunt had taken great care not to record the spell for fear it would fall into the wrong hands.

That she had written the spell down for Fenris without his having asked it, proclaimed her frustration with his refusal to take a bride more loudly than any words ever could. But he did not want to dwell on her actions. He was fresh from the hunt, having taken down no less than three reindeer and a bear, the latter of which he had been forced to use his sword, The King Maker, to finish off.

He desired to clean both himself and his trusted weapon much more than he desired to ruminate on his aunt’s concerns about his lack of mate. And he could see Wolf Lake, which bordered his village, glittering in the distance.

It seems we have caught the King of Wolves unawares, a voice said from behind him.

Fenris stopped short, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword, before he turned to face his cousin, Vidar, a wolf almost