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The smell of fuel caught my attention first, and I stared down the road, narrowing my eyes to refine my vision. A rusty red tow truck was bumping along the highway towards me.
It was so old I wasn’t sure it was going to make it the next mile, let alone pull the Dart back to the garage. But in St. Francisville beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The truck pulled up in front of me a minute later, backing up so the hook end was facing my front bumper. I hopped off the car and circled around to the passenger side to grab my bag, not wanting to leave it in the car.
“Thanks for coming all the way out.” I started talking before I knew if the mechanic was out of his truck yet. Sometimes I had a nasty habit of babbling, something I’d picked up in the swamp with Memere. The old witch rarely spoke except to instruct or scold, so often I ended up having lengthy monologues on my own while I wandered around. I hadn’t yet rid myself of the habit, sometimes I caught myself nattering at length in public places with no one specific around to hear my thoughts. “Hope the drive wasn’t too lo—”
My words got stuck in my mouth as I stood up and saw the mechanic staring at me from the opposite side of the car.
For whatever reason, I’d expected an older man. Some balding guy in his late fifties with a scowl and a beer belly. The only part I’d gotten right was the scowl. The man looking back at me was maybe twenty-five. His angular jaw was tense, and his full lips were set in a humorless frown. But goddamn. He was the single hottest man I’d seen in my entire life.
His eyes were hazel, the color of swamp water flecked with fresh fallen leaves. Something about them reminded me of home. His hair was either dark blond or light brown, though my certainty on which changed with each shift of sunlight over his head. He wore mechanics overalls with the top stripped down and tied around his waist. This gave me a provocative view of his chest and shoulders in an almost-too-tight gray T-shirt. His upper body was so muscular I thought he might be able to lift the car up on his own.
A waft of wolf scent hit me, and my eyes went wide.
He could lift the car barehanded if he wanted to. This guy was a werewolf through and through.
His nostrils flared, and he gave me a knowing nod, letting me know he’d figured me out too. “Car trouble, ma’am?” he drawled, and his eyes glimmered with humor for the first time since I’d seen him, breaking up the seriousness of his frown.
Since he was a werewolf in St. Francisville, he would be under Callum’s control, and that made him safe, if not trustworthy. I saw no sense in lying to him. The whole pack would know soon enough.
“Almost got driven off the road by one of those Church of Morning loonies.” I didn’t know it had been them for sure, but it seemed like a pretty safe bet.
This made his eyes widen, either in surprise or because he was impressed, it was hard to tell which. “And a couple blown tires were the worst of the damage?”
“You haven’t seen my rear end yet.” Oh God, Genie, did you seriously just say that?
He smirked but didn’t say anything. Instead he walked to the back of the car and let out a whistle. “Guess they meant business.”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude or forward or anything, but who are you? I thought I knew every wolf in Callum’s pack.”
“What’s the matter, Princess? Worried I might be up to no good? Seems to me you’ve already had your fair share of bad luck today.” He flicked the dented trunk and gave it one last assessing stare before sauntering back towards me. Walk wouldn’t have been the right verb. He moved like a predator or a really suave runway model. Each gesture promised something obscene.
My cheeks flushed.
What was it about this guy? So far he hadn’t been very nice to me, but just the sight of him was turning me stupid. It was unfair for any one man to be as good-looking as he was. If he had a half-decent personality, I might have been at risk of falling for him, but from what I could tell I had nothing to worry about in that department.
I wasn’t too astonished that he knew I was a princess. He’d taken my name when I called in. As a werewolf in the south, he could easily do the math. “You obviously know who I am. It’s only fair I have a name I can call you.”
“You can call me anything you want to.”
I rolled my eyes. “Smooth. On average, how many times has a line like that worked for you?”
“It’s usually fifty-fifty. I’ve never tried it on royalty before. Seemed worth a shot.”
“Sorry to tell you, but your average is tipping towards failure.”
His mouth quirked up in a slight smile, and he set about getting the car rigged up to the tow truck. I thought he was going to ignore my question a second time, but just as I was about to push for more information he said, “My name is Wilder. Wilder Shaw.”
Shaw. I bristled. Now there was a name I definitely knew.
“You must be related to Hank.” I tried to make it sound casual, but a hint of bitterness snuck into my tone, and there was no getting around it.
Hank Shaw, one of the longer-standing members in Callum’s pack, was a big reason I still hadn’t brought Cash home to meet the family after a year together. Hank was bigoted in a way that seemed over the top even in the south. He was vocal and obnoxious about his racism, so much so the pack’s sole black member, James Fairfax, had been granted permission to live away from the pack compound.
Worse still, Hank had actively abandoned the pack once to join a rogue group led by none other than my mother. Ultimately he’d come back with his tail between his legs and begged forgiveness, which Callum had grudgingly offered him. Mercy was, technically, part of the pack, so while Hank had by all accounts defected, the king let it go on a technicality.
Secret, when she found out, was furious. As it turned out, one of the duties Hank had performed for Mercy was beating the tar out of Secret. It was too late for Callum to go back on his decision though. All he could do was keep Hank on a short leash and hope he was reformed.
