Chapter 3

The fur of her tail prickled. No. She couldn’t go back to a cell. She was innocent, though she knew they’d never believe her. She was a Rogue, an outcast. According to pack wolves like them, not to be trusted. It was the unfortunate way of their world.

The commander’s voice chilled her. “Spread out and cover more ground. We can’t let this one go.”

The other wolves obeyed, leaving the commander in the middle of the clearing. Her heart sank further as each wolf prowled in a different direction, lessening her chances for an easy escape.

With his back still turned to her, she watched the commander’s wide shoulders rise and fall. For a moment, he leaned his weight against his horse before he removed his Stetson. Setting it on the horse’s saddle, he ran a hand through his short hair, leaving it slightly ruffled. It was pale brown in color, almost dirty blond.

He must have decided to shift and search like the men he’d given orders to, because he chose that moment to reach down and tug the hem of his shirt over his head.

Had Isabella been in human form, she would have had to stifle a gasp. The spine and musculature he revealed were rippled with sinew, but the scars were what stole her breath. Even in the dim glow of the moonlight, her wolf eyes allowed her to see. The commander’s body was a history of battles won and lost, wars waged on behalf of a supernatural empire.

And then he turned around and Isabella’s breath caught.

He wasn’t any commander. He was the commander. In an instant, she recognized exactly who he was. This cowboy wolf was none other than Jeremy Lennon, high commander of the Grey Wolf armies, infamous Grey Wolf warrior, and one of the fiercest wolves ever to live.

Anytime one of the Wild Eight had returned to their compound near death’s

door and clinging to a thread of life, this man had almost always been the one singularly responsible—and that didn’t begin to cover the damage he’d done to the Wild Eight through the information-gathering and patrolling schedules demanded of his men.

If she’d thought his battle scars made him intimidating, the pair of eyes locking onto the bush she hid in, as if he saw straight through the shrubbery, chilled her more than the snow beneath her paws. Irises the color of steel bore into her, distant and cold.

Those steely eyes framed a harsh, handsome face. The brown hair of his close-trimmed beard framed his strong jaw, and she realized the chill of his gaze made him more rugged than his features should have allowed. With high cheekbones and a perfectly straight blade of a nose, he should have been a charming, handsome cowboy. Yet years of a hard life had roughened him around the edges with a rugged, raw masculinity.

As he stepped toward her, Isabella hunkered lower into the leaves, hoping it wasn’t this wolf, this cowboy to discover her, because what she saw in those steel-gray eyes told her this wolf showed his enemies no mercy. He drew so close that only the toes of his brown leather boots remained visible. Just as she was certain he had detected her, his horse let out a frustrated whinny, drawing the commander’s attention.

Isabella breathed a sigh of relief.

Stepping away, the commander placed his shirt in his horse’s saddlebag before starting on the buckle of his worn, ranch-worked jeans. She averted her eyes, trying not to ogle him, but it wasn’t as if she could move from her position. She watched as he shifted into his wolf—a massive, gorgeous grey, larger than most others she’d seen of their kind—and bounded away into the woods. It was only once he was gone that the tension in her limbs eased. Slowly, she started to ease backward from her hiding spot, causing the leaves to rustle.

As if his horse had known she was there all along, the beast trotted toward her, sniffing across the ground until the soft warmth of its mouth tickled her paw. The beast examined her with dark eyes, sniffing in her scent. It must have decided it liked what it smelled, because it nudged her with its wet nose.

The horse nudged her again, this time harder, forcing her to adjust her balance. When the horse persisted, she finally shifted into human form and stood, taking in the full sight of the beast and the old, worn leather saddle on its back.

Its saddle. Her eyes widened.

Having grown up on a ranch in central Florida and after spending several years working the rodeo, she was an accomplished horseback rider. She knew her way around a stable well enough that she could tell this animal was not only well cared for, but also powerful, fierce in strength and, more importantly, speed. She would move faster on horseback. Deep into the safety of the mountains, far past the Missoula Grey Wolf territory, if she could help it.

What was petty thievery compared to the horrible crimes she’d been charged with? Little consequence, if you asked her. The false accusations failed to take into account the truth of her circumstances.

Treason. Murder.

And now…

“Horse thief.”

Isabella froze. She felt the blood drain from her face as she turned toward the sound of the commander’s voice.