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I throw my head back, a roar of laughter taking over my whole body. Her monogram never, ever would have occurred to me. But I love that something like that is where her mind is now. That she is thinking of us, our future, and combining our families.
“It’s a very cute ass though,” I reply, not bothering to try and hold in my laughter.
“Sixten!”
“Ames, I love you, no matter what your monogram. I’m just glad that you’re mine.”
“And I’m glad you’re mine.”
About Claire Hastings
Claire is a walking, talking awkward moment. She loves Diet Coke, gummi bears, the beach, and books (obvs). When not reading she can usually be found hanging with friends at a soccer match or grabbing food (although she probably still has a book in her purse). She and her husband live in Atlanta.
You can find her here:
Claire Hastings Hideaway ⇒ https://geni.us/ClaireHastingsHideaway
Website ⇒ https://www.clairehastingsauthor.com
Newsletter ⇒ https://geni.us/ClaireHastingsNL
The Wrong Kind of Shifter
DANIELLE JACKS
Blurb
My name is Bea, and I live with the Falcon wolf pack. I’ve found my true mate, Colt, and you’d think that would make me lucky, but you’d be wrong. He doesn’t like my love for the environment and my less conventional way of living. We have different views on what it means to be a wolf shifter, and it’s keeping us apart.
I’m a rejected mate.
When a hurricane hits Starr, Texas, I lose everything except Colt. Now I have to start afresh with only a few options available to me. Do I follow Colt on a path I wouldn’t have chosen, or will fate finally guide me the right way?
Chapter One
BEA
Boarding up the windows and sandbagging the driveway, I prepare for the incoming storm. My woodland cabin in rural Starr, Texas, has tall trees to protect it and, hopefully, the love of mother nature. My home was a gift from my late father, and I will defend it with all my might. I live in a small community of wolf shifters, but this building is my sanctuary.
The wind starts to pick up as I drive my old beat-up truck a small distance away from the woods. I leave it under an abandoned bridge, hoping it will come out unscathed, then, on foot, I make my way back to the cabin.
Colt is working on his cabin as I approach our pack land. I try to ignore my increased heart rate, which always happens when he’s around. His muscular arms and tight pants shouldn’t have any effect on me. Especially when, last summer, he made it clear I’m not the shifter for him. He humiliated me in front of everyone.
Apparently, being a headstrong woman is too much for him to handle, but I can’t change who I am. I’m a green thumb, plant-loving, climate activist, and I’m not ashamed to speak my mind. My Dracaena trees are better company than him, anyway.
Picking up the pace, I run inside my cabin and secure the door. Three locks and a bolt will hold it tightly in place. Once I’ve triple-checked everything, I make a pillow den under the table and grab my latest romance novel. Using the light from a candle, I snuggle in, ready to wait out the storm.
The howl of the wind and creaks of the wood make me glad this isn’t a horror story. There’s no way I want to be an extra in that kind of storyline. Usually, I’m all for the beauty of diverse weather, but a hurricane can cause too much destruction. The poor plants are going to get ripped out of the ground, their beautiful leaves damaged. I turn the page of my book, hoping I get lost in the romance, and try to ignore the raging storm that’s only passing through.
A couple of hours go by, and I’m so invested in the soulmates getting together that the loud noises outside don’t seem so bad. The forest is swaying, and I’m glad I brought most of my friends—the plants—inside.
Another hour passes and the storm is livening up. The roof sounds like it’s lifting from its rafters, and it’s times like this I wish I had a television or something so I could see how long until the storm passes. No light is getting into the cabin from the outside, and I can’t see the destruction. I’m probably overreacting.
There’s a thud on my door and, at first, I think it’s debris until it happens again. The rhythm is too specific to not be a person. Who in their right mind would be outside in this? If I open the door, I risk damaging my property, but I can’t abandon someone without shelter.
Leaving the comfort of my den, I make my way to the door and start undoing the locks. I don’t get a chance to turn the handle as the door flings open. The vision in my head isn’t a patch on reality. Fallen trees lay broken on the ground, and there is a blur of materials in the sky. A gust of wind blows my house plants over, and my belongings swirl around the room. I need to get my place secure again.
There’s a loud groan, and I jolt my head to the side to find Colt holding onto my porch. He has blood running down his face and he’s covered in mud. I help him inside and he limps to a chair. Once the door is secure, I turn to him.
