Page 45 of Wedding for My Werewolf

Marjorie sank into a chair, the rigid set of her shoulders softening. For the first time, she glimpsed vulnerability in the older woman’s face.

“He’s not rejecting the Pack, or you,” she said softly. “He’s just trying to find his own way.”

A number of emotions played across Marjorie’s face—pride warring with tradition, love battling duty.

“He was always so stubborn,” Marjorie said finally. “Even as a pup. His father used to say it would make him a strong Alpha one day.”

“It makes him a good sheriff now. The way he puts everyone else first, how he protects the whole town—that comes from both of you.”

Marjorie examined her perfect fingernails.

“Perhaps I’ve been… too rigid in my expectations.”

“I think you’ve underestimated him.”

Their eyes met, and something shifted in the other woman’s expression. She gave a reluctant nod.

“Maybe I have.” Marjorie stood, smoothing her skirt with trembling hands. “I should?—”

A harsh knock cut through the air, three hard thuds that made her heart stutter. Rick’s voice carried through the wood, hard and menacing.

“Open up, Robin. We need to have a chat about what you stole.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else as she tried frantically to think of a way out. But before she could move, Marjorie’s arm shot out, pushing her behind the older woman’s back.

“Go away,” Marjorie snapped. The elegant woman who’d arrived to judge her was gone, replaced by something fierce and primal as she positioned herself between Robin and the door.

“Last chance,” Rick yelled. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

The door handle rattled violently and Marjorie’s lips pulled back in a snarl.

“You won’t touch her,” Marjorie growled, her hands curling into claws at her sides.

She stared at Eric’s mother, stunned by this unexpected defense. The woman who moments ago had questioned her place in Eric’s life now stood as her shield, wolf instincts overriding any previous doubts. Rick didn’t know what he was facing.

CHAPTER 18

Eric padded quietly through the fresh snow as he made his way back from town, his thoughts focused on the information he’d uncovered about Martin and Palmer Industries. The sun filtered through bare branches, casting long shadows across his path. His wolf prowled beneath his skin, anxious to get back to Robin.

The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood up, and his wolf surged forward, slamming against his control. He froze mid-step, every muscle tensing as he lifted his head to scent the air. The wind carried traces of Robin’s fear, mixed with Marjorie’s anger and—his blood ran cold—the acrid stench of the bounty hunter.

“No.” The word came out as a snarl. His wolf burst free, lending him supernatural speed as he sprinted through the forest. Tree branches whipped past his face, but he barely felt them. His heart thundered in his chest, not from exertion but from raw panic.

He’d left her alone. He’d promised to protect her, and he’d left her vulnerable.

The rational part of his mind tried to reassure him that his mother’s presence meant Robin wasn’t completely defenseless, but his wolf wouldn’t listen to reason. All he could think about was reaching her, claiming her, keeping her safe.

The forest blurred around him as he pushed himself faster, following the scent trail that grew stronger with each stride. His claws emerged, his bones aching with the need to shift fully, but he fought it back. Not yet. He had to know what was happening first.

He was almost there. Her scent filled his nostrils, laced with fear. The cabin was close now, just past the next stand of trees. He leapt over a fallen log, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, and the cabin came into view through the trees, the door hanging on one hinge. Thatcher’s scent hit him full force, and his vision tinged red, his wolf howling for blood.

He charged inside, claws still extended, ready to tear apart anyone who’d dared threaten what was his, and came to an abrupt halt. Robin and his mother stood in the living room, both alive and whole. Relief flooded through him, but his wolf refused to settle until he’d checked every inch of them for harm.

Robin’s face was pale, her small fists clutching the broken remains of a lamp, but she looked… triumphant.

His mother stood beside her in a protective stance, and he blinked. Gone was her usual imperial bearing—her jacket was torn and her claws dripped blood—and she looked like the fierce wolf-mother he remembered from his childhood.

“Thatcher?” he growled. His wolf demanded blood, needed to hunt down the threat and eliminate it.

---