Izabel: Wolves of Sorrow, #3

By Elaina Roberts

Izabel Canavar has a plan.

Learn the Rifaniir's medical technology. Integrate that technology into her pack's emergency first aid training. Leave behind the elders and the secrets they forced upon her on Sorrow.

But everything changes when a dance in a rainstorm brings her face to face with Ranoch Til, the Rifaniir Security Director assigned to the wolf community. Broad and ruggedly handsome, Ranoch's protective strength soothes her healer's heart while his scent captivates her wolf.

When flirtation turns to slow, deep kisses, Izabel dares to dream of a future with her director. But the intrigues aboard the Kaleidoscope continue to ripple throughout Korlyn's Glen. With the deaths of the traitors, protests morph into violence and Ranoch and Izabel are caught in the middle.

As they battle to save the victims of the latest attack, the first hints of a deeper plot emerge and bring with them the secret Izabel fought to leave in Sorrow. Now she must face her past if she's to make her place in this new world and claim a Rifaniir mate of her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elaina Roberts
• Release date: Jul 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223525578

Book preview

Izabel

IZABEL

WOLVES OF SORROW:

ELAINA ROBERTS

CONTENTS

[01]

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[02]

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[03]

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[04]

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[05]

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[06]

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[07]

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[08]

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[09]

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[10]

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[11]

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[12]

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[Epilogue]

Preview

Wolves of Sorrow: Jelayan

About the Author

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.

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Copyright © 2022 by Elaina Roberts

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All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

This novel references herbal medicines and first aid techniques augmented and altered by the fictional world in which it’s set. It should not be considered medical advice, nor should anyone rely upon it as a source of medical knowledge. In case of a medical emergency, please consult a doctor and not a romance novel for best medical practices.

To my wonderful friend, L.A.P., who answered my random phone call asking about disaster triage and field hospitals. She knows her stuff, and any deviation from actual disaster procedures is entirely my fault.

And of course, to my husband, who answers my random questions about combat, arteries, and helps me iron out the logic that may or may not exist in this world. He continues to be a delightful supporter of the voices in my head.

[01]

Three weeks after arriving on Barif…

A brilliant flash lit up the wolf community and sent spots dancing across Izabel’s vision. When a loud crack followed, she fought her instincts to seek out a safe den and hide. She wasn’t on Earth Prime where storms brought a wall of sand and dust to choke and bury unfortunate wolves caught in the open. She was on Barif, and on this new world storms meant cool breezes and fresh rain. Storms meant life. At least, that’s what the Rifaniir assured them while the skies darkened and the clouds rolled in. Drawing in a deep breath to calm her racing heart, she took a deliberate step out of her infirmary and into the street.

Storms had been common occurrences in Sorrow. Impotent, angry clouds the color of cooling blood blocked out the sun and sent bolt after bolt of lightning arrowing toward the earth. Wind devils scooped up sand dunes to scour stone and skin alike and then coated everything in a fine layer of dust. It stuck to the wolves’ hair, their eyes, sank between the fibers of their clothing to chafe and irritate. And following hard on the storms’ heels came the haze, the stealthiest predator on Earth Prime.

The haze bore no scent and made no sound. It didn’t howl its joy at a successful kill like the wolves or hiss in warning like the adders. It didn’t roar its anger like the cougars prowling the rocky cliffs of Extinction Crag. It slipped into an unsuspecting den like a wraith and stole the breath from all it touched. Young or old, dominant or submissive, no one survived its fatal caress.

There was no haze on Barif. The Rifaniir’s world was a lush, green planet with sweet-smelling air and a stable atmosphere not reliant on the faltering stabilizers of Earth Prime. Izabel drew in a breath then another. This storm held the same biting scent of ozone as those from her home world, but here the air was cool and thick with the promise of rain. It, too, smelled sweet, and she inhaled its scent of damp earth and clear water.

She looked up. No angry red clouds. No lightning licking along the borders of the stabilizers’ safe zones. Dark clouds hung low in the sky in shades of black and grey, but they moved and shifted to allow brief glimpses of bright stars and the moon’s reassuring light. Another flash. Another boom. A rumbling growl rolling across the sky like a stalking predator.

A shudder wracked her body followed by cold anger. She’d lived too long in fear—fear of others learning her secrets, fear of losing her place in the pack, fear of never being good enough, useful enough. This was a new home, a new life. She’d find her way without fear. She just had to get through this damned storm first.

A cool, fat water droplet struck her nose. A second rolled down the tip of her ear. She bared her fangs and growled, and the skies took it as a challenge. Those first few drops turned into a steady flow. Another flash, another roiling boom of thunder, and the flow became a deluge. And still the air was fresh and clean. No haze, she told herself. There was no haze on Barif.

In a nearby doorway, someone gasped. In another, she heard a startled yip. It rarely rained in Sorrow and never like this. She licked her lips and tasted only clean, pure water. This was a feast after a lifetime of famine. It was real, truly real. Izabel closed her eyes and let the water wash over her.

She laughed while rain fell from the sky as far as the eye could see. Holding her arms wide, she spun in a circle and let it soak into her hair, her clothing, her skin, her very soul. A giggling pup darted from a nearby den, followed by another. Then another. Soon, the street was full of excited pups and awestruck wolves.

She stumbled in the mud and large hands gripped her waist to steady her. Careful.

The voice, as deep as the thunder which rumbled and growled overhead, brushed across her ear in a gentle caress. His hands were warm through her wet clothing, his touch firm but not bruising. She shuddered again, but not from fear or cold. She liked the voice and the touch even more than the reality of the rain.

Laughter still curving her lips, Izabel turned to thank him. The words died before she could speak them, joy fading into utter enchantment. The Rifaniir male was a dream made real. Tall and stocky with a broad chest and muscular shoulders, he was striking in his uniform. The rain plastered his dark hair to his head, water beading on his long lashes before dripping down his cheeks. His lips were full, his jaw and upper lip covered by a neat moustache and beard. And when she looked into his eyes, she didn’t see galaxies. She saw a forest of fairy lights in greens and golds and autumn reds. Beautiful and captivating.

Thank you. The words were barely a whisper, stunned fascination gripping her throat and stealing her breath.

Any time, he murmured, his eyes wide and locked on hers.

If she were a fanciful sort of person, she’d think he’d fallen into fascination with her. But she was the pack’s healer, too sensible to believe such foolishness. Still, his hands remained on her hips, and he hadn’t walked away. No, he’d stepped closer, and his eyes roamed over her, devoured her.

She swallowed to moisten her dry throat. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Izabel.

His thumbs brushed against her hips, the light caress penetrating her wet clothing to leave a fiery trail of sensation across her skin. Ranoch.

She recognized that name. Security Director Ranoch Til served as liaison between the pack’s dominant warriors and Korlyn’s Glen’s security teams. Predators themselves, the Rifaniir recognized the need to give strong dominants a way to work out their natural aggressions. Director Til and his team oversaw their training in Rifaniir tactics and weaponry and encouraged integration with the various martial groups under their razheen’s command.

She’d heard the whispers from hopeful dominants, unmated females and males who enjoyed a tussle with their bed partners and knew there was playful competition as to who’d lure the director into their beds first. She understood the appeal. He was… magnificent.

Before she could form a coherent sentence, Arjun and Aadhire rushed over and tugged on her shirt. Keelah and Talish’s twin terrors pointed toward the center of the green space near their den with a pup’s excitement for new experiences. C’mon, Iza! Mama says we can jump in the puddles.

Laughing, she followed the twins onto the grass where a cluster of pups jumped and splashed with delighted abandon. She felt the heat of the director’s gaze as she walked away. Felt, too, the imprint of his hands on her skin. But when she risked a glance back, he was no longer there. Sighing, she pushed aside her disappointment. It was probably for the best. Dominant males of Ranoch Til’s caliber chose playmates who’d challenge them. They didn’t play with steady, boring healers.

***

How do you plan to get it into the infirmary? Jelayan, her best friend and all-around pain in her ass, looked from the large cargo transport to the narrow door and back again. Her vivid green eyes, a gift from a feline ancestor not as far removed as the pack believed, practically glowed with humor.

Two weeks had passed since Izabel’s dance in the storm. Two weeks of sneaking glances of the handsome security director from the safety of her infirmary. She hadn’t avoided him, exactly. She just wasn’t certain she could form coherent words if she heard his deep voice again. He’d starred in far too many of her dreams during those weeks, the sensory memory of his voice and his touch sending her pulse skittering like a sand hare across the wastes.

Shut up, Izabel muttered. The words held little heat and more than a touch of embarrassment. It looked smaller on the comm.

That’s what she said.

Stifling her giggle at the cliché response, Izabel tossed up her hands and growled. Why are you my friend? Seriously. Why?

Because you can’t live without me. The warrior bared her narrow fangs in a teasing smile, but she’d spoken the truth. Izabel and Jelayan had relied on each other’s strength and loyalty through the worst times of their childhood. Two scared and wounded girls protecting one another when the adults in their lives failed them. How about the door from the garden?

I’ve measured it. Izabel growled. "It’s narrower."

Need help? asked the large male who’d come to stand beside her. Just like the night of the thunderstorm, Ranoch Til’s deep voice stroked over her senses like gentle fingers through fur. She closed her hands into fists, swallowing the urge to do some stroking of her own.

I ordered this unit without measuring the door. Izabel scrubbed a hand over her face and groaned. I’ll have to send it back and get the smaller model.

The smaller model sold for nearly twice the price, far outside her budget. She’d found this one—older, used, and barely affordable—listed in a last-chance sales catalog and slated for the recycling bin. She’d gutted her initial relocation allowance offered by the razheen and a hefty portion of the infirmary’s budget to purchase it. If she couldn’t get it in her lab, she’d have to extract the oils the old way. That’d take months, leaving her with holes in her supplies.

Ranoch checked the door’s measurements and then walked around the transport pod. He paused at the label, frowned, then said, Give me a second.

Jelayan waved Izabel to her side as the director pulled out his comm unit. Is there something you forgot to tell me? A soft growl rumbled below the hissed words.

No. Izabel turned her back to the director and prayed Rifaniir ears weren’t as keen as a wolf’s. I’ve only met him the once during the storm. Why?

Her friend arched a brow, speculation glinting in her eyes. He talks to no one outside the training room, and in there, it’s mostly grunts or brief orders. By brief, I mean a single word. The warriors have a betting pool on how many per day he’ll say.

Don’t get that look. He’s our liaison and probably rarely gets a chance to interact with the less dominant wolves. I’m sure he’s just being polite.

Do you have a second cargo pod? Director Til spoke before Jelayan could respond. When Izabel turned, he’d put away his comm unit and unlatched the top of the crate. We can bring it in in pieces.

There’s one in the sparring room, Jelayan offered. I’ll go grab it. She flashed Izabel a knowing look and left.

You don’t have to do this, Director, but I thank you for your help. I know you have a lot of responsibilities, not just here but in the city.

Any time, Izabel.

She hadn’t realized her name could sound like that. Exotic and beautiful. The way he lengthened the I and curled his tongue around the trailing L felt like a physical caress. Ranoch Til was a dangerous, dangerous man. And a beautiful one.

His shoulders bunched and flexed as he lifted the crate’s lid and set it aside, catching the eye of more than one nosy packmate. The sides of the transport crate were just heavy enough to stretch his uniform across his torso and highlight the muscles in his arms. When he set each piece against the wall of her infirmary, his pants molded against his thighs and the curve of his ass. A very biteable ass. She smothered an appreciative growl.

This Rifaniir soldier appealed to her on far too many levels. She appreciated his masculine beauty and the seductive timbre of his voice. Her wolf snuggled against his unaggressive strength and protective dominance. She wanted to tumble him to the street and lick him all over, maybe bite a little. Taste him. Flexing her fingers to retract her claws, she gave in to temptation and moved closer to the enticing male.

Using the excuse of inspecting the machine she’d spent her last credit to purchase, Izabel gave the director a subtle sniff to learn his scent. The floral and citrus bite of neroli spice over sun-warmed amber musk filled her nostrils and enticed her wolf. It was as delectable as the director himself.

He glanced up and caught her staring. A corner of his lips lifted in a slow smile. The fairy lights in his forest green eyes glittered in the sunlight, beautiful and mesmerizing.

What will you use this for?

His quiet voice vibrated along her skin like gentle hands. Curling her fingers into her palms before she did something she shouldn’t, like run her fingers through the neat whiskers on his jaw, she forced her attention on his question.

A lot will depend on my research of the local flora, but I want to speed up the process of getting oils from certain flowers. Talking about her lab work steadied her and helped her focus on anything other than the warmth of his body when he stepped too close or the way his scent called her wolf. This may be an older model, but it’s still faster than doing it by hand, reducing months of pressing into hours.

It’s a good machine. Age doesn’t always mean obsolete. The protective padding joined the disassembled transport crate beside her door. The newer upgrades added automated reporting for scientific integrity, but the core mechanics are the same. Since you’ll be working in much smaller batches, he glanced up and waited until she nodded her affirmative, the newer models aren’t really worth the price.

That’s what I thought. Well, that and she couldn’t have afforded those newer models anyway. How do you plan to get it inside? It’s still too wide even without the crate.

As the director uncovered more of the distiller, the bright sunshine glinted off its aramidium frame and highlighted all its worn and scuffed places. A deep groove created a two-inch gouge on the left side and ended at a chipped corner. A hairline crack split the comm panel’s display. Its three switches were in different materials, colors, and styles, a sign they’d been replaced over time with whatever had been available. Minor defects which somehow looked shabby in the morning sun. She traced the small crack and stole surreptitious glances at the gorgeous male at her side.