In one week, Kirk Anderson's lonely life in the mountains turns upside down: he falls in love with a bright young painter named Leo, and he discovers that he's not the only werewolf in the world.
Unfortunately, the other werewolves are a biker gang who want to take over Kirk's territory. Worse than that: they want to take Leo, too. Desperate to keep his mate, Kirk is forced to claim him...in front of the entire pack!
Kirk sniffed at the morning breeze.
Leo was cooking again. Bacon and eggs. He didn't need a wolf nose to distinguish those scents; any human would have known them instantly, especially if they were hungry.
It was a delicious, hearty, hungry-making scent, but it wasn't enough to overcome the cloud of turpentine, paint, and motorcycle fumes. It just mingled with those vile scents, softening their rank edges a little.
Kirk stamped around the front of the cabin once more, trying to obliterate the tracks of strange boots beneath his own.
The tang of the intruders was still in the air, though he'd scrubbed the logs clean of their visible taint.
He would have to go after them.
The intrusion upon his territory was intolerable, unthinkable.
Kirk had no idea what the bikers wanted, or what they thought they were doing by provoking him like this, but it didn't really matter. He had to put a stop to this, and he had to do it by daylight, before they realized what they were really dealing with.
Bite them, bite them hard, pick them up by the scruff of their necks and shake them--no.
The wolf had its own way of dealing with intruders, but that wasn't what he needed to think about right now.
Until night fell and the full moon rose, he could at least try to be human.
A sound reached him, warm and familiar, lulling his fast, tense heartbeat into a slower rhythm even before he recognized it. It was Leo, humming softly under his breath.
Kirk paused, rested one hand on the overhanging eaves of his cabin, and listened. It was that same song Leo had sung in the bath; something old, in a melodious foreign language. It sounded like French, or maybe Italian.
The song sounded melancholy, but Kirk tried hard not to take that as a sign. It's just a song.
Surely Leo wasn't affected by the intruders; he couldn't smell them, couldn't taste the utter wrongness of them in the back of his throat. If Leo felt like cooking breakfast for the both of them, if he was singing, that was a good sign, right?
Kirk shook his head at himself. This is getting ridiculous. You're getting ridiculous.
The worst of it was that he couldn't shake the memories of last night. The memories were so vivid, so strong; he could live on those memories for a lifetime, and yet he was greedy for more.