Chapter 1
SIMONE
The bar’s lame tonight.
Not the dangerous kind of lame either—the kind where the air buzzes with bad decisions waiting to happen. No. This is the dull, disappointing kind. The kind where the music is too loud for the number of people actually inside, and the bartender keeps polishing the same glass because there’s nothing else to do.
Not enough hits.
I let my gaze drift lazily around the room, careful not to stare too long at anyone. Looking too interested draws attention, and attention is the last thing we want unless we’re actively working someone.
Mostly old men and other women.
Which, honestly, I’m fine with. Old men can be easy marks if they’re alone. They like to talk. They like someone younger listening to them. And they tend to carry more cash than they should.
But tonight?
These are all groups of women.
Clusters of them. Little circles of friends leaning over sticky tabletops, sharing drinks and stories and inside jokes. Some celebrating something—birthdays maybe, or promotions. Others clearly decompressing after work.
Groups of women recognize outsiders.
It’s instinctual. Pack behavior.
And I can’t have that.
One lone girl sitting down with them immediately becomes a question. A curiosity. Something they analyze without even realizing they’re doing it.
Who is she?
Why is she alone?
Did someone invite her?
Too many questions.
Questions lead to attention.
Attention leads to memory.
Memory leads to problems.
So tonight, the groups are useless.
I shift slightly on the barstool, letting the cold rim of my vodka cran press briefly against my bottom lip before taking a small sip. It’s my third one, technically—but I’ve been pacing them slowly enough that my head stays clear.
Alcohol dulls instincts.
And instincts are the only reason we’re still alive.
The drink burns pleasantly as it goes down, and I set the glass back on the scarred wooden bar.
Rough pickings tonight.
Which makes sense.
It’s a Tuesday night at the Stave N’ Hoop.
The place tries to market itself as a cozy, rustic pub—lots of dark wood, fake antlers on the walls, and that ridiculous wagon wheel chandelier hanging above the center of the room. But really, it’s just the closest bar to the highway and the industrial park.
Truckers. Contractors. Traveling businessmen.
Normally, that makes it perfect.
Tonight, though? Dead.
I steal a glance over at Trish.
She’s claimed the one seemingly available guy tonight.
Her straight platinum blonde hair is an immediate draw under the dim amber lights of the bar. It gleams almost unnaturally bright, falling like silk down the back of her black leather jacket.
And it's her turn with the best wig.
That’s the rule.
Rotate the looks.
Rotate the stories.
Never get predictable.
Never get recognizable.
It’s amazing how much people trust what they see with their eyes.
Different hair, different clothes, slightly different makeup—and suddenly we’re completely different women.
Trish plays the role beautifully.
She’s perched on the edge of a booth now, leaning toward the man across from her with a smile that’s just the right mix of shy and interested.
Bait.
And judging by the way he’s leaning forward, elbows on the table, completely captivated?
He’s hooked.
I glance away before our eyes can meet.
Never watch the catch too closely.
Across the room, Milly stands near the hallway leading to the bathrooms.
A great vantage point.
She can see the bar, the booths, the entrance, and the back exit all from that spot.
Strategic.
Milly always thinks strategically.
Tonight she’s wearing the shoulder-length warm brown wig, the one with soft curls that frame her face. It makes her chocolate eyes pop in a way that feels almost unfair.
Men trust warm.
Brown hair. Soft smiles. Gentle voice.
If Trish is the spark that ignites interest, Milly is the safety net if things go sideways.
Our lookout.
Our backup.
Our muscle if necessary.
Not that anyone looking at her would guess that the woman casually scrolling on her phone could snap a man’s arm in under two seconds.
But wolves know wolves.
And I’ve seen what she can do.
I turn slightly back toward the bar, adjusting the sleeve of my jacket.
I’m sitting at the bar.
Nursing my vodka cran.
Playing the role of bored but approachable.
Which, right now, isn’t even acting.
Rough pickings tonight.
The bartender—a guy in his late twenties with a scruffy beard and tired eyes—glances my way.
“You good?” he asks, gesturing to my glass.
“Still working on it,” I say with a faint smile.
He nods and moves down the bar.
Good.
Friendly but forgettable.
Exactly what we want.
Behind me, the door opens and a cold gust of night air sweeps briefly through the room.
Instinctively, my senses sharpen.
Even in human form, the wolf is always there. Always listening. Always smelling.
I catch the scents immediately.
Beer.
Cigarettes.
Cheap cologne.
Motor oil.
Nothing interesting.
Just two guys coming in from outside, laughing about something as they head toward the pool tables.
I relax again.
Across the room, Trish laughs softly at something her mark says.
He’s in his fifties, easy.
Graying hair at the temples. Expensive watch. Slight belly that suggests too many business dinners and not enough gym time.
Clearly a married businessman looking to get lucky.
Those usually have the most cash in their wallets.
And the most guilt clouding their judgment.
He leans closer to her, saying something low.
Trish tilts her head, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear in that absentminded way she’s practiced a hundred times.
Hook.
Line.
Sinker.
A few minutes later, I watch as he slides out of the booth and offers her a hand.
Trish pretends to hesitate.
Perfect.
Then she takes it.
And just like that, he’s “leading” her out, chest puffed slightly like he’s won something.
Like he’s the lucky one.
The door closes behind them.
Until tomorrow, when he learns all his cash is gone.
And Trish comes home with all his card information.
It’s truly too easy in the “getting to know you” process.
Humans want to trust.
Especially when they’re thinking with their ego.
Or their dick.
I swirl the melting ice in my glass thoughtfully.
Rule 1: Have a solid backstory.
Not too complicated. Not too simple.
Believable.
Rule 2: Something tragic happened tonight.
We need solace.
People love feeling like heroes.
Rule 3: Someone alone.
No witnesses. No protective friends. No suspicious wives.
Rule 4: No one important.
That one’s the trickiest.
Because stealing from the wrong person gets you attention from the wrong people.
And attention from the wrong people gets you dead.
Or worse.
I glance once more toward the door where Trish disappeared.
She’ll be back in an hour or two.
Maybe less if he’s especially stupid.
And Trish is the lucky bitch of the night.
And I mean bitch.
Because technically?
That’s exactly what we are.
My lips curve slightly around the rim of the glass.
After all…
We are all werewolves just trying to get by.
And surviving as rogues isn’t easy.
Packs control everything.
Territory. Resources. Safety.
If you don’t belong to one?
You exist in the cracks of their world.
Always moving.
Always careful.
Always hungry.
We can’t hold steady jobs. Too many background checks. Too many questions when you disappear for three nights every full moon.
We can’t settle down in one town. Packs notice outsiders who linger too long.
And we definitely can’t rely on human systems to protect us.
Humans don’t even know we exist.
So we adapt.
We hunt in different ways.
Some rogues run drugs.
Some steal cars.
Some disappear into forests and live like animals.
Us?
We run cons.
Quiet ones.
No violence unless we absolutely have to.
Just a little charm.
A little acting.
And a lot of very stupid men.
I take another slow sip of my drink and glance around the room again.
Still dead.
Still boring.
Still disappointing.
Milly catches my eye briefly across the room.
She lifts one brow.
Anything?
I tilt my glass slightly in response.
Nothing.
Her mouth twitches in mild annoyance before she looks away again.
Yeah.
Tonight’s a bust.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and check the time.
10:42 p.m.
Too early to call it.
But if the crowd doesn’t improve soon, we might have to.
Because even rogues have rules.
Don’t push your luck.
Don’t stay in one place too long.
And never let desperation make the decisions.
That’s how wolves end up dead.
Or captured.
Or worse—dragged back into a pack that doesn’t want them.
The thought sends a faint shiver down my spine.
I drain the last of my vodka cran and set the empty glass on the bar.
Maybe the night’s not over yet.
Maybe one more idiot will wander in.
Because somewhere out there is a man who thinks he’s about to have the best night of his life.
And he has no idea three wolves are already watching him.
Waiting.
Patient.
Hungry.
The ice in my glass finishes melting before anything interesting happens.
That’s usually the first sign the night’s going nowhere.
I push the empty glass a few inches forward on the bar, the wood tacky beneath my fingertips from years of spilled beer and wiped-up mistakes. The bartender glances over, gives me a silent question with his eyebrows.
I shake my head slightly.
No refill.
No point wasting the money when we might be packing it in soon.
Behind me, the bar hums with that low, aimless noise of people who aren’t actually having fun but also aren’t ready to go home yet. Laughter bursts here and there, too loud, a little forced. Glasses clink. The jukebox cycles into another country song about trucks and heartbreak.
The Stave N’ Hoop in all its Tuesday-night glory.
I shift on the stool and glance toward the entrance again, more out of habit than hope.
Still nothing worth hunting.
Two women stumble toward the bathrooms, arms looped together, giggling drunkenly. A pair of construction guys argue quietly over a pool shot near the back. One of the old men at the corner table is halfway asleep over his beer.
Dead.
Across the room, Milly hasn’t moved.
She’s still leaning casually against the wall near the bathroom hallway, one boot crossed over the other, phone in her hand. Anyone watching her would think she’s killing time while waiting for a friend.
But I know better.
Her eyes flick up every few seconds.
Tracking entrances.
Watching hands.
Listening to tones.
Wolves don’t stop observing. Even when we pretend to be bored.
I roll my shoulders slightly, trying to work out the tension that’s settled there.
Waiting is the worst part of this job.
The hunt itself? Easy.
But the quiet before it…
That’s when your brain starts wandering to places it shouldn’t.
Places like what happens if a pack catches us.
Or worse.
What happens if they already know.
My wolf stirs faintly under my skin at the thought, restless and uneasy. I push the instinct down. There’s no scent of pack wolves here tonight. No heavy authority in the air. No warning prickle along the back of my neck.
Just humans.
Soft.
Oblivious.
Safe.
The door to the bar creaks open again.
Cold night air sweeps through the room, carrying with it the scents of wet pavement, pine from the surrounding forest, and something sharper underneath.
A familiar scent.
My attention shifts immediately.
Not prey.
Pack.
Elise steps inside.
She pauses just long enough to let the door close behind her, her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting before she moves further into the bar.
Like the rest of us, she looks completely human.
Five foot seven.
Lean but not bulky.
Dark hair pulled into a loose braid that falls over one shoulder.
But there’s something about the way she carries herself that separates her instantly from the rest of the room.
Predators recognize predators.
And Elise?
Elise is the kind of wolf who survived long before she found us.
Her gaze sweeps the room once—slow, calculating, cataloging every face, every movement.
Assessing threats.
Assessing opportunities.
Then her eyes land on me.
A small tilt of her chin.
Permission.
I give the slightest shrug in response.
Nothing yet.
She walks over.
Even the bartender straightens a little as she approaches the bar. Humans always respond to her that way. Something in their instincts registers authority, even if their brains can’t explain it.
Elise slides onto the stool beside me like she’s been sitting here all night.
“Slow?” she asks.
Her voice is calm. Low. Controlled.
I snort softly.
“That obvious?”
“Your glass is empty and you’re still here,” she replies.
Fair.
I tap a finger against the rim of the glass.
“Trish got the only one worth anything.”
Elise glances briefly toward the door.
“Older guy?”
“Fifties. Business type. Wedding ring tan line.”
Her lips twitch slightly.
“Good for her.”
Translation: good payout.
The bartender approaches.
“What can I get you?”
“Elijah Craig. Neat,” Elise says without hesitation.
Of course she orders bourbon.
The bartender nods and moves away.
I lean slightly toward her, keeping my voice casual.
“Milly’s on eyes.”
“I saw.”
“Place is mostly girls’ night groups.”
“Useless,” Elise says.
“Exactly.”
Her drink arrives, amber liquid catching the warm bar lights as the bartender sets it down in front of her.
She thanks him with a small nod before wrapping her fingers around the glass.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
We both watch the room.
Because talking too much is suspicious.
But two women sitting quietly at a bar?
Perfectly normal.
Elise takes a slow sip of her bourbon.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye.
She’s older than the rest of us.
Not by decades.
But enough.
Late thirties, early forties maybe.
Which in wolf terms?
Means she’s survived a lot longer than most rogues ever manage.
And that’s why she runs this operation.
Older.
Wiser.
Sharper.
Deadlier.
She was already doing this long before the rest of us stumbled into her orbit.
When she found me two years ago, I’d been living out of my car and stealing food from gas stations.
Desperate.
Hungry.
One step away from making a mistake that would have gotten me killed.
Elise had watched me for three days before approaching.
Three.
Days.
Just to make sure I wasn’t stupid.
Or reckless.
Or a liability.
I glance down at her hands now.
Still.
Relaxed around the glass.
But I’ve seen those hands snap a man’s wrist without hesitation when he grabbed Milly the wrong way.
Deadlier, definitely.
“Crowd won’t get better,” I say quietly.
“Probably not.”
Her eyes move across the room again, pausing briefly on each cluster of women.
Calculating.
Evaluating.
Always working.
“New town tomorrow?” I ask.
“Most likely.”
We’ve been here three nights already.
That’s usually our limit.
Any longer and people start recognizing faces.
Bartenders remember regulars.
Security cameras become a problem.
And packs…
Packs notice patterns.
Elise takes another sip of bourbon.
“How’s your wolf tonight?” she asks suddenly.
The question catches me off guard.
“Fine.”
She hums softly, unconvinced.
“You’ve been restless.”
Of course she noticed.
She notices everything.
I shift slightly on the stool.
“Just bored.”
“Bored wolves make mistakes.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Her gaze slides toward me then, sharp and knowing.
“You’re still alive because you listen to me.”
“True.”
“Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t.”
Another silence settles between us.
Comfortable.
Watchful.
The door opens again.
Both our heads turn slightly toward it.
Instinct.
Always instinct.
Three college-aged guys stumble in, loud and already drunk.
Not useful.
Too young.
Too broke.
Too likely to cause problems.
Elise dismisses them instantly.
“No.”
“Agreed.”
They head toward the pool tables anyway.
Milly glances at them briefly before returning to her phone.
The operation continues.
Waiting.
Watching.
Hunting.
I lean back slightly on the stool.
“You ever miss it?” I ask after a moment.
Elise raises one eyebrow.
“Miss what?”
“Pack life.”
For a second, something flickers in her eyes.
Gone almost immediately.
“No,” she says simply.
I believe her.
Mostly.
Because packs are supposed to mean family.
Safety.
Belonging.
But for wolves like us?
Packs meant rules.
Control.
Punishment.
Exile.
The four of us found something better.
Not a pack.
But close enough.
The door opens again.
Cold air rolls in.
And this time…
Elise goes still.
Not obviously.
Not enough for a human to notice.
But I feel it.
The subtle shift in the air.
Her wolf rising closer to the surface.
My own instincts sharpen immediately.
“What?” I murmur.
Her eyes stay fixed on the entrance.
“Maybe,” she says quietly.
“Maybe what?”
Her lips curve slightly.
“Your night might not be a bust after all.”
I follow her gaze.
And wait.
