Rescued By The Wolf
She's not afraid to run with this wolf.When a poacher killed his mate, Rafe Wyatt lost his future. While the Wahyas of Walker's Run have been pulling him back from the brink, he's certain he won't have another chance at love. That is, until Grace comes to town.Grace Olsen is a woman without roots. That's exactly how she likes it, until a sojourn in a small, close-knit Appalachian community gives her a new vision of what home could be—and so does Rafe. He was supposed to be nothing more than a casual lover, just as wary of commitment as she is. When their raw attraction becomes something deeper, more complex, they could be looking at a new future together. But someone close to them both would rather see Grace dead than let her be with the man—and the wolf—she's grown to love.
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Sheâs not afraid to run with his wolf.
When a poacher killed his mate, Rafe Wyatt lost his future. While the Wahyas of Walkerâs Run have been pulling him back from the brink, heâs certain he wonât have another chance at love. That is, until Grace comes to town.
Grace Olsen is a woman without roots. Thatâs exactly how she likes it, until a sojourn in a small, close-knit Appalachian community gives her a new vision of what home could beâand so does Rafe. He was supposed to be nothing more than a casual lover, just as wary of commitment as she is. When their raw attraction becomes something deeper, more complex, they could be looking at a new future together. But someone close to them both would rather see Grace dead than let her be with the manâand the wolfâsheâs grown to love.
Testosterone and a slew of wolfan hormones stormed Rafeâs veins.
Burning up all his restraint, Rafe stood perfectly still as Grace moved lithely out of the room with her hips sashaying in an erotic sway that beckoned both the man and the wolf.
God, she was pretty. Long, shiny hair the color of corn silk. Bright green eyes that put polished emeralds to shame. Soft golden skin and an athletic body with just the right amount of curves. None of which he shouldâve noticed. And yet he had, and more.
She had a ready smile, a kind heart toward people and animals. He liked her spunk more than he should.
And she smelled really good, too.
Another time, another place. Another life. She couldâve been the one.
Southern born and bred, KRISTAL HOLLIS holds a psychology degree and has spent her adulthood helping people and animals. When a family medical situation resulted in a work sabbatical, she began penning deliciously dark paranormal romances as an escape from the real-life drama. But when the crisis passed, her passion for writing love stories continued. A 2015 Golden Heart® Award finalist, Kristal lives with her husband and two rescued dogs at the edge of the enchanted forest that inspires her stories.
To all who have loved and lost, and dared to love again.
Although the act of writing may be a solitary endeavor, inspiration is often found far and wide.
To Cam and Scott at New Tokyo Auto Repair, thanks for keeping the Blue Bandit running smoothly so I can attend all those writerly meetings and retreats. A heartfelt thanks to my friend and colleague, John Custis, for sharing your knowledge of baseball. Ann Leslie Tuttle and Kayla King, oh how I appreciate your wisdom and guidance in helping me to shape this story. And, as always, much love, hugs and kisses to Keithâthe hero of my heart, thank you for never doubting.
Contents
Boom!
The shotgun blast decimated the midnight calm of the Walkerâs Run wolf sanctuary. Rafe Wyattâs sure-footed paws faltered. Heart frozen midpound, he dove to the ground, nose filling with the earthy scents of damp dirt and decayed leaves.
A flash-flood of dread and fear rolled tremors through his wolfan body but he didnât feel any pain from penetrating shrapnel.
Then again, three years ago he hadnât felt the bullet that had ripped through him and killed his pregnant mate trotting beside him, either.
Goddamn poacher.
If Rafe had been in his human form, he wouldâve spit on the ground and stomped his foot in it as if it were the dead manâs grave.
The hunter hadnât lived long enough to collect his trophy. Rafe, still in his wolf form, had torn him to shreds. A justified killing under wolfan law.
Heâd suffered no recriminations from the Woelfesenat, the governing wolf council. Any penance was his own.
Avenging Lexiâs death had brought him no peace. His only solace from the loss and longing had come from a bottle of bourbon.
How many times had he drunk himself into oblivion, only to find the sharp talons of reality waiting to shred his heart and soul again the moment he awoke, cold, naked, and alone?
Too many to count.
And it had damn near killed him when heâd blacked out behind the wheel and missed the curve at Wigginsâs Pass. Drove right off the mountain. The guardrail, a thick canopy of trees below, and rescue workers had kept his Jeep from plunging to the bottom.
Still, the accident wasnât what convinced him to stop drinking. It had been waking up in the hospital and seeing his fatherâs drawn, pale face, the frenzied panic in his eyes, his ghostly-white lips and the salt-and-pepper hair that suddenly had twice as much salt as pepper. Rafe never wanted to make his father look like that again.
