Fenrir's Fate

By Lisa Oliver

Fenrir, ancient Norse god of wolf shifters, has had more centuries than he could count to become set in his ways. Can a cute little cat shifter from Vegas make him want to change them?

"Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no. I think I might have just punched my mate in his furry face. I'm so sorry."
Dorian was on a great adventure in Montana when his campervan runs out of gas, and he finds himself stranded in the middle of nowhere. He didn't expect to find a wolf, he didn't anticipate hitting said wolf who had startled the living daylights out of him, and he definitely wasn't prepared for when that same wolf just disappeared.

"It can't be true. It just can't be true."
Fenrir was the first to admit he was set in his ways. It's what made him dependable, reliable, and comfortable. He saw no need to change his ways, even after his pack deserted him. Coming across a cat shifter was a mild excitement in his day, but that didn't mean he had to claim the man.

The Fates work in mysterious ways, but not even they were prepared for how stubborn Fenrir could be. It could take the efforts of Loki and Anubis, plus a spot of advice from Claude and Poseidon, to get these two on the path of Fated Mate happiness.

#MMFatedMates, #MMTheGodsMadeMeDoIt #MMparanormalromance

This story was written for a mature audience. Please store your e-content responsibly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Oliver
• Release date: Nov 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215472880

Lisa Oliver

Hi My name is Lisa Oliver and welcome to my Author page. After spending years writing non-fiction books, the lure of fiction and the men in my head finally had me sitting down and writing The Reluctant Wolf, an M/M paranormal erotic romance in November 2013.  Since that time I have written over one hundred titles including the Cloverleah Pack series, the Bound and Bonded series, Alpha and Omega series, Stockton Wolves series, The Hellhound Collar series, The Gods Made Me Do It series and many more. All of my books are M/M (or M/M/M) come with a guaranteed HEA and absolutely no cheating. I strongly believe in the power of love - and most of my books are based on the true mate trope. (The exception is my Arranged Marriage series). However, for me, insta-lust does not equal insta-love and all of my books tell of the journey my main characters need to go through to reach that state of being in love with someone special. Some of my books can be read as standalone, but in cases like the Cloverleah series you get a good idea of the back stories of secondary characters by reading the books in order. I love to hear from all of my readers so please feel free to catch up with me on Facebook, Twitter or through my blog.

Book preview

Oh, Sweetpea, no, no, no, Dorian cried, gripping the steering wheel as his pea green campervan shuddered, hiccupped, lurched forward a few yards, thought about going again, and then stopped. Just stopped in the middle of the road. Okay, not a road exactly. More like a gravel trail that Dorian had no idea how he’d gotten onto in the first place. We can’t stop here. No. No. No. What’s the matter with you? What do all these lights on the dashboard mean? Oh, my gods, is there even a driver’s manual in here?

Scrambling over the driver’s seat, Dorian started looking in every drawer and cupboard of the admittedly well-equipped camper. He had a feeling his sweet ride had a terminal illness, and it was up to him to fix it. I’m not cut out for rural living, Sweetpea, the name he’d given the camper, because… pea green color. What else was he going to call his ride? Actually, the color was more of an ugly shade of green in reality, but Dorian fell in love with it the moment the car rental agent showed it to him. I need to get you going again. There’s just you and me out here.

That hadn’t been intentional – the traveling on his own bit. The plan was simple enough when it was first conceived, on admittedly a rather drunken night back in Las Vegas two weeks before. Dorian and his friends, Elke and Steven, decided they’d had enough of the desert outlook and Dorian thought it would be a great idea to find some trees. Montana, he remembered saying grandly. We can fly into somewhere like Great Falls, he’d pointed at the map to show his friends there was a place called that, hire a campervan, and travel around like real adventurers.

Sweetheart, Elke had drawled which was so fake it wasn’t funny, but Dorian put up with it because they were the best of friends. Sweetheart, you have a meltdown if you break a fingernail. You’re not what anyone would call the adventurous type.

Dorian had snorted at the time. It couldn’t be helped his human friends didn’t know about his animal side. And sure, his sweet lynx might tend more to house cat than panther in temperament, but he could still fight his way out of a paper bag if he had to. He just chose not to, as a rule. But Dorian was seized with the need to show he was more than a fabulous advertisement for the latest trends in nail polish and lip gloss. And the booking side of the trip planning was done right there in the bar. The internet was a wonderful thing for making drunken ideas a reality.

Five days into their two-week adventure, Dorian was alone. In fairness, he’d gotten on the plane alone. He could’ve pulled out at the last minute and neither of his friends would’ve teased him about it for more than five minutes. But Elke couldn’t go because they had an audition for something – probably a commercial because they had incredible feet for that sort of thing. But, whatever the reason, they seemed extremely relieved not to be traveling in a camper.

Dorian wasn’t too worried when they mentioned it because he was sure that Steven wouldn’t back out. Adventure was that man’s middle name. But the day before they were due to fly out, Steven came to an unintended stop on his motorbike and broke his foot. He was gutted when the doctor told him he could not get on the plane with his moonboot – something about pressure and swelling and some other ghastly medical terms Dorian didn’t want to know about.

We can reschedule, Steven had pleaded at the time. But somehow Dorian knew he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get on the plane the day it was booked, and besides, he’d already scheduled the time off from his small business. So, he’d slung his backpack over his shoulder, and walked into the airport alone.

And now I’m here. Sweetpea, how could you do this to us? Dorian clambered back over the seat to try the key again. Maybe his precious camper just needed a moment to take a breather. They had traveled a lot of miles together. Ooh, I wonder if the manual is in the glove compartment. Isn’t that a funny name, he said, reaching across to take a look. I mean how many people wear gloves these days?

The chatter was Dorian’s stress management tool. Elke had told him that talking to himself was the first sign of madness, but Dorian bluntly explained that sometimes he had too many awesome thoughts in his head, and they just had to have an outlet. He wasn’t sure if it was his words, or the accompanying flounce that did it, but Elke never mentioned it again.

The book. Yes. Dorian almost squealed in delight. Not that anyone would mind, because he was on his own, but he reminded himself he had to be a fully-fledged responsible adult for five minutes, so Sweetpea could be fixed, and they could be on their way. What would I look for. Oh, troubleshooting. That sounds the best idea.

Dorian’s eyes scanned the page, looking between the pictures in the manual, and the lights on his dashboard. He was conscious of the fading light outside, and knew he needed to find somewhere to park up for the night. Preferably not in the middle of a gravel road that resembled a scene from a horror movie. It’s not the brakes, it’s not transmission… does anyone even know what that is? Hmm, it’s not the lights on or a bulb missing… There. Dorian stabbed the page. It’s that one. Oh, yes, it does look like one of those pumps at a gas station. What does it…? oh, no.

Dorian stared at the light in horror, and then at the gauge next to the red light, and then back at the manual. Sweetpea, why didn’t you tell me you were running low on gas? Oh, no. According to the manual, the light would’ve started flashing when it was down to the last thirty miles of fuel available. I was watching the road so carefully. You knew that. I didn’t want to scratch your paintwork on the trees and branches. You had to know that. Didn’t you?

It was getting really dark now. From memory, the last time Dorian had passed a gas station was at least an hour or more’s drive away. Pulling out his phone, Dorian checked for signal bars. There weren’t any. Of course, there wouldn’t be. So many horror movie scenarios could’ve been avoided if someone had been carrying a working cell phone.

Peering out of the windows, Dorian couldn’t see any lights outside either. I have a bed, he told himself as he firmly hit the door lock button, hearing them clunk. I don’t need lights because my sweet animal side can see in the dark. I can pee into an empty bottle if I absolutely have to go… he glanced outside again, because I am not going out there in the dark. Oh, and I think there’s some cans of tuna and crackers in the cupboard in the back. Horror movie scenario averted, yes.

Confident he had his sleeping, eating, and peeing arrangements in place, Dorian climbed over the seat into the back of the van again, blessing his short and slender stature. A bigger man couldn’t do what I can do, he reminded himself, because that was a positive as well, and Dorion was short on positives.

At least no one is likely to be using this road, and if they do, maybe they’ll have some gas they could spare. It wasn’t as though anyone could go past him because the campervan took up the whole width of the road. Someone will come along. Yes, Dorian was almost sure of it.

Look at me, having a great adventure, he thought two hours later as he settled down into bed. In the dark, with nothing but the wind and creaking trees for company, Dorian shut his eyes determined to sleep. Things always looked better in daylight. Always.

Chapter Two

There was something going on. Fenrir could sense it, even if he couldn’t tell exactly what it was. But someone, or something had come into his territory the night before, and for some reason Fenrir was seized with a sense of urgency he’d never felt in his very long existence.

Unable to sleep, Fenrir was up with the sun, outside, splitting logs with an ax. He could’ve just waved a godly hand and had the wood cut and split for him, but he reserved doing that sort of thing for the wood stacking. Fenrir didn’t have a problem splitting the wood. He got a huge sense of satisfaction from the way the rhythmic actions worked his body. But picking the pieces up and stacking them in his woodshed was a chore usually reserved for other pack members… when they’d been around.

Stopping long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow with his forearm, Fenrir scowled at the empty pack grounds. The neat row of rustic houses, and the wide-open green areas now completely empty of children. Ingrates. Yes, he had been in a foul mood when his pack members learned that one of his sons, that damned Claude in Tulsa had gone and found himself a Fated Mate in that doubly damned Poseidon. A Greek god of all things. Fenrir had been furious, and no amount of wood cutting had soothed his soul in the months that followed. His pride was only slightly assuaged when he’d heard Claude had gotten Poseidon pregnant. That was hilarious.

But the news of that mating had caused rumbles among his pack members. One of his other sons had gone off to visit Claude, probably hoping Poseidon would try and kill me, as if he could. The boy had come back with his tail between his legs, sewing seeds of discontent. Prattling on about hot water that came out of a tap, indoor plumbing, and a whole host of other utilities Fenrir felt were totally unnecessary, like grocery stores and television.

Could he have given those things to his pack members? Why, yes, he could’ve done that with a wave of his godly hand. But Fenrir didn’t see why he should have to. He and his little pack had lived together in one of the remotest sections of Montana for well over a century. There was nothing wrong with the way they were living – working as a collective to hunt, grow food, and raise their young.

In the winter, when the snow piled high around their wooden houses, they would huddle around the roaring fire in the main pack house and tell tales of times gone by. It was glorious and predictable, and Fenrir had never felt more connected to his pack than on those short days and long, dark evenings.

But in the winter after the ‘great mating disaster,’ which was exactly how Fenrir saw the situation with Claude in his head, pack members started complaining about the cold. They were wolf shifters. Ugh. Fenrir swung his ax and landed it with precision, splitting another log in two.

Then others talked about finding a Fated Mate, just like Claude had done. It’s not like anyone in the pack was Fated to another, but many nights were spent talking about the possibility of finding a mate somewhere ‘out there.’

Fenrir didn’t bother pointing out that the chances of meeting a Fated Mate were one in a billion or even more. The rot in his pack had started. One by one, some shame-faced, some angry at him as though he’d been keeping them prisoner… ludicrous. But one by freaking one, the young single wolf shifters left first, followed by the family groups. In the space of a year, Fenrir had been left alone.

And that’s exactly the way I like it. Fenrir swung his ax again. He’d never taken a mate of his own, preferring to sleep with the willing when the mood was right. He’d sired children, done his bit to build the pack… and were any of them grateful? No. Damned ingrates.

Looking around, Fenrir saw the ground around his wood block was covered in scattered split logs, and there were no trees left to split. Well damn, he said, almost shocked to hear the sound of his own voice. You’re getting a bit raspy there, old man. But then his stomach rumbled, and Fenrir noticed the sun was peeping over the trees, so it was probably time to eat. With a wave of his hand, Fenrir stacked his wood against the side of his house and stomped inside. He was fairly sure he had some rabbit stew still simmering on his woodstove.

There was no rabbit stew. Fuming, Fenrir stared into a used but decidedly empty pot. Then he remembered, when he saw the plate and spoon on the kitchen bench, that he’d gotten hungry the night before. He hadn’t been able to sleep because of that damned disturbance. Fenrir had lived in his territory long enough that he knew every damn leaf, insect, and bird’s nest.

And something’s there that shouldn’t be.

His wolf was itching to get out, and as Fenrir was thoroughly pissed off, on edge, and ready to explode, he stalked back outside, waving his clothes away. His precious wolf form, feared for generations, sprung free, and he loped in an easy stride towards the trees. I’ll scare the shit out of whoever is in my territory, damn nuisance disturbing my sleep, and then I’ll wave up some damn breakfast. And it won’t be rabbit stew.

Chapter Three

The only change to my current predicament is the sun has come out. Dorian sat on the steps of his camper, hugging a mug of coffee, and considering his options. He’d slept surprisingly well, considering he was sure he was going to be murdered in his bed. But Dorian trusted his animal spirit, and his cat was remarkably chill about where they were and the fact they were essentially stuck in the middle of nowhere.

My options are limited, he pointed out to a sparrow who’d hopped by to see if he had anything to share. Do I hike up the nearest hill and see if I can get a mobile signal that way? I could call someone to bring me gas.

The sparrow tilted his head at Dorian’s words. I know, I know. The issue with calling someone to come is that I don’t really know where I am. Did you guys not think to put signposts on tree trunks or something that could help?

That question was clearly not part of the sparrow’s department. He was busy digging in the dirt for a worm.

Dorian sighed and idly inspected the fingernails on his left hand. It was tempting to just sit in the back of the campervan and redo his lovely manicure. But his hair needed washing, and for that he needed access to hot running water. That meant getting his Sweetpea running again. I’m going to have to walk, aren’t I? The curious sparrow had been joined by a friend and really wasn’t paying attention, but seeing the two birds together had Dorian sighing all over again.

If Steven had been with him, they never would’ve gotten lost or run out of gas in the first place. The man was super organized with things like that. And if Steven had come along on Dorian’s adventure, and they had run out of gas, then he would’ve just seen it as an opportunity to stretch his legs and probably run back to the nearest gas station without breaking a sweat. Either way, if Steven was here, I wouldn’t be stuck here dithering about my next course of action.

Realistically, Dorian knew he wasn’t actually dithering about what to do either. He knew what he had to do. But the thought of traipsing through the forest, even if he did follow the gravel road, with no clear end destination or knowing how long it would take him to get there didn’t fill him with a keen can-do attitude.

But it has to be done, and it’s not going to get done if I stay sitting here. Standing, Dorian brushed off the back of his pants and then finished the last of his coffee. Thank goodness for the wee gas cooker, which was all he had to say about that. Dorian, without his morning coffee, was not worth talking to.

Okay, let’s try and pretend I’m organized, shall we? Wallet. Dorian patted his back pocket and then frowned. It might be better in the front pocket, in case it falls out while I’m walking. He moved his wallet. Keys for the van, check. Sunglasses, definitely. Dorian picked them up from where he’d left them on a tiny shelf. Shoes, Dorian sighed at his rainbow sneakers, are just going to have to do. I’ll stay on the gravel, and with luck, it won’t be long until I come to an actual road and can flag someone down. All righty. Sweetpea, stay safe until I get back, and I will be back, hopefully sooner than later.

Climbing out of the van, Dorian made sure the door was shut firmly, and locked it with his keys. Taking one more fortifying breath, he turned… and yelped. There was a huge wolf, with fangs and everything, staring at him from the trees.

Warn me when someone’s sneaking up on me, he yelled at his