Protecting The Gray Wolf (Lone Wolf Legacy), page 1
Table of Contents
Content Warning
Dedication
Author’s Note
Legend of the Lone Wolf
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more romance from Entangled…
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by N.J. Walters. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Alethea Spiridon
Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover photography by MRBIG_PHOTOGRAPHY, Thorsten Spoerlein, and Chayanan/GettyImages
Interior design by Britt Marczak
ISBN 978-1-64937-680-0
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition February 2024
At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage for details.
https://entangledpublishing.com/books/protecting-the-gray-wolf
Thank you to my readers for loving my wolves as much as I do.
Author’s Note
This book is part of a trilogy whose mythology is not connected to any of my previous series. Many writers meticulously plot their books, but I rely on the characters to whisper in my ear. I merely take diction and try to be as faithful as possible to the stories they relate. This is a work of fiction, as told to me by the characters portrayed within the pages.
Legend of the Lone Wolf
Since the rise of the werewolf, there has always existed a single lone wolf—with pure white, gray, or black fur and eyes that match—who answers to no alpha, belongs to no pack. Merciless and deadly, he wanders the world, both judge and executioner of rogue wolves who senselessly kill, endangering all their kind.
When one dies, another takes its place, awakening to his purpose the first time he shifts to his wolf form. Known by the sign of the lone wolf—a sickle over the heart—the short-handled, circular blade remains as a tattoo on the man and as a mark on the wolf. A lethal combination of intelligence, brutal strength, and keen instinct, he walks a lonely path, shunned by pack, always alone.
Gift or curse, he is endowed with immortality and can be killed only by beheading, either during battle or by stealth or betrayal. Some say, worn down by responsibilities they eventually chose to die. Some whisper only love can kill them. The truth remains a mystery.
For the first time, there are three in the world—white, gray, and black—who all bear the mark on their chests. No one knows why, least of all them…
Chapter One
Kade Alvarez peered in the window of the upscale Manhattan gallery and snorted. Not exactly his kind of place. He rubbed his hand over his jaw. The two-day-old stubble, black jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket likely didn’t meet the dress code. It would have to do. His prey was inside.
For the first time since he’d shifted into his wolf form at fifteen—and his life was blown to hell—he hesitated. As a lone wolf, he was judge, jury, and executioner for the wolf packs. His job was to hunt down and execute any rogue wolves that might expose their existence to the human population. The alphas took care of discipline within a pack, but there were those who believed they existed outside the laws. This wasn’t a normal hunt. It wasn’t a rogue he was tracking but a woman. A human woman.
What am I doing here? He blamed the white wolf. After almost a century of having no contact, Devlin Moore—the white wolf—had reached out to him. But extreme times called for extreme measures. The lone wolves were being hunted, not only by one of their own kind. That would be too easy.
No, a damn mage was involved. Not the New Ager bunch who called themselves wiccans or pagans, but a real, magic-wielding, bend-the-laws-of-physics mage. The goal was to capture one, or all the lone wolves, and steal their immortality, and they would stop at nothing to attain it.
“No good deed goes unpunished,” he muttered. The line of communication between him and Devlin was tenuous, but the other lone wolf had warned that the trap involved a human woman. One who, according to the white wolf, would share his distinctive coloring.
Which was why he was here instead of at a bar in Rio de Janeiro knocking back tequila and enjoying the company of some of the local lovelies. The inner voice that had guided him for the past eighty-five years had brought him to New York. Or had it been influenced? If a mage was involved, there was no way to be sure.
His wolf grumbled inside him, eager to hunt. Ignoring the beast, he let his gaze roam over the glittering crowd. The men were split into two groups—those that wore suits and those in casual designer jeans, which had likely cost more than everything he had on combined. The women wore dresses—predominantly black—and high heels, their hair coifed, makeup understated. It screamed money.
“Get it done.” He yanked the door open with more force than necessary. Whatever force had brought him here, whatever challenge waited, he’d deal with it as he always did—quickly and decisively. Several heads turned his way when he stepped inside. Ignoring the stares, he prowled through the airy space. It was larger than it appeared from the outside, taking up multiple levels.
“Welcome to Chelsea’s.” Striking in a gold fitted sheath and towering heels, she commanded attention. Her blond hair was pulled back in a sleek bun. Fine lines radiated from the corners of her eyes—hinting she was older than she appeared at first glance. Her lips were painted a deep red.
Shit! He didn’t have the time or inclination to play nice, his wolf too on edge. Smothering his impatience, he pasted on a smile and reached for her proffered hand. “Thank you. And would you be Chelsea?” He brought her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to them before releasing her.
Her pupils dilated, and he caught a hint of arousal over the cloying scent of her perfume. At times like this, his preternatural senses were a pain in the ass. Her lips curved upward. “I am. Chelsea Clifton. This is my gallery.”
Knowing his job, he glanced at the walls, most of which were filled with paintings that looked to have been done by a group of three-year-olds hopped up on sugar, and barely refrained from snorting. “It’s impressive.”
She hooked her arm through his. “I pride myself on it. Let’s get a drink and you can tell me what brought you here. I’ve never seen you before.” A painted nail glided over his chest. “And I would have remembered.”
“I was passing by and decided to crash the party.” He didn’t bother to lie. No point.
Her hand squeezed his bicep through his coat. “You’re more than welcome to enjoy the opening. Maybe you’ll stay until it ends at eleven. I can give you a private viewing.” Stopping a passing server, she retrieved a glass of champagne from the tray and handed it to him.
Kade took it and waited until she had one before raising the glass. “To a successful night.” He brought the glass to his lips and sipped. An excellent vintage. No cheap stuff for this crowd.
“Chelsea.” Annoyance crossed her brow as a younger man hurried up to them, his eyes tracking Kade from head to toe before turning to his companion. “The Ralstons wish to speak with you. They’re considering several paintings.”
“Duty calls.” She patted his arm. Damn woman was doing her best to mark him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get her cloying scent off his jacket. “Enjoy the showing. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she all but purred. She started to walk away but turned back. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” With a cocky grin, he headed to the back of the room. He dumped the glass on the first serving staff he saw. The artwork here was more realistic and took actual skill, but he wasn’t here to look or buy.
It was crowded, but at more than six-and-a-half feet, he could see over everyone. No one pinged his radar. A circular iron staircase rose to the second floor. Taking the stairs two at a time, he went to the next level. He paused by the railing and looked down. Chelsea caught his gaze and gave a finger wave.
Turning away, he continued his search. There weren’t as many people up here. This floor was divided into four zones with a different artist in eac
He was about to head back to the stairs when a painting caught his eye. Everything inside him stilled. Even his wolf went quiet. It was hung on the back wall, as far from the patrons as it could get and still be in the gallery. The canvas was four feet tall and three feet wide. Drawn by an invisible force, he stepped closer, stopping right in front of it. Mist rose around a mountaintop. It was night, the full moon hanging low in the sky. At the peak stood a pure gray wolf, head tipped back in mid-howl. But what he couldn’t tear his gaze away from was the mark on the wolf’s chest. It was a black sickle shape.
It was the mark of the lone wolf, the one that branded him as an immortal warrior, the one that had appeared on his chest when he’d made his first shift. His hair and eye color had changed at the same time, both turning a foggy gray. That’s how it always happened.
He raised his hand until it hovered in the air in front of the canvas. It was a perfect rendering of what he looked like as a wolf. His mouth went dry, and he tried to swallow past the lump that threatened to choke him. Solitary, the beast was king of the night, a powerful, apex predator, afraid of no one or nothing. Yet loneliness oozed from him.
What the fuck is going on?
He dropped his hand back by his side and curled his fingers into his palm to keep from ripping the painting from the wall. He felt exposed and vulnerable, as if the artist had seen into his soul.
There was a signature on the bottom right side of the canvas. Luna. That was it. No last name. Probably wasn’t even her real name, assuming it was a woman. This had to be why he’d been drawn here. Chelsea would know the artist. As much as it pained him, it was time to cultivate a friendship with the owner. Before the night was over, he’d have the artist’s name and own the painting. Whether he’d keep it or destroy it was still up for debate.
The air stirred behind him. Goose bumps rose on his skin. Kade’s head snapped around, searching for what had disturbed him. The woman was almost six feet tall, even wearing flats. The dress she wore was a pale gray that matched her eyes. It was loose but gave the impression of generous curves beneath. Curly brown hair tumbled around her shoulders. Streaks of gray ran through the front part so the strands framed her face. And what a face it was. Her lips were full, her chin slightly rounded. High cheekbones brought his gaze back to her eyes, which widened beneath thick, dark lashes.
Part of him hadn’t believed the white wolf, or hadn’t wanted to, but there was no denying the vision before him. The gray streaks in her hair matched the color of his hair, and her eyes were a mirror image of his. Their eyes met, and she came to an abrupt stop. Every muscle in his body tensed, poised to give chase if she ran. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him.
Lust warred with surge of possessiveness and the unexpected urge to protect. When she licked her lips, his jeans grew tighter. He clamped down on his emotions, exerting iron control over his wayward body. Last thing he needed was a hard-on in the middle of an art opening.
She squared her shoulders and made her way toward him. His wolf whined, wanting to rub against her, mark her with his scent. Ignoring the creature, he focused on the woman. There might be gray strands in her hair, but her skin was smooth and unlined. Her lips glistened, not with lipstick but with what seemed to be some kind of gloss. He sniffed. Cherry, if he wasn’t mistaken.
He had a sudden craving for the sweet fruit.
“What do you think of the painting?” Her soft, lyrical voice skated over his skin like a caress. He barely kept from shuddering. He was acting like a teenager with his first woman, not a hundred-year-old immortal werewolf. He’d seen more beautiful women. Hell, he’d bedded them. But right here and now, he could bring none of their faces to mind, all of them eclipsed by the loveliness of the one before him.
Magic, he reminded himself. His emotions were being manipulated. Devlin had warned that the attraction would be immediate, that he’d feel as though she belonged to him on an instinctive level. Not that it would be like a punch to the gut.
Her head tilted to one side, and her brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” What had she asked him? Right, the painting. “It’s well executed.”
At his lack of enthusiasm, her beautiful eyes shuttered and her lips tightened. “If the style or subject matter doesn’t appeal, we have various others you might enjoy.”
“I want to buy it.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up. When she smiled, it was as though the heavens smiled. Christ, he was getting downright poetic.
“Yes.” His voice was gruffer than he intended, but he was fighting off this unwanted attraction and trying to yank his attention back to the reason he was here. “But I want to meet the artist or no deal.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip and then stuck out a hand. “I’m Luna West. The artist in question.”
…
It was rude, but Luna couldn’t stop staring at the man. Rough around the edges with his scruffy jaw and leather jacket, he should have looked completely out of place. Instead, everyone around him faded into the background, paling in comparison.
Towering over her, she estimated he stood at least six-and-a-half feet, maybe slightly more. His hair was a pale, foggy gray that fell in thick strands to his broad shoulders. It was an unusual shade, better suited to an older man, but there was nothing elderly about him. This was a man in his prime. There were no signs of dark roots, either. Maybe it was natural, like the two thick locks she had on either side of her face. She pegged him to be in his thirties, mostly because of the air of confidence surrounding him.
Her hand hovered in the air. Feeling silly, she began to lower it when his snapped out and caught it. Strong, tanned fingers closed around hers, surrounding them in warmth.
“Kade Alvarez.” His deep voice sent a shiver down her spine and tingles to more intimate spots that hadn’t tingled in a very long time. “You painted this?”
“Yes.” Long seconds passed. He continued to hold her hand while she stared at him, unable to look away. God, I’m being an idiot, mooning over a potential client. If Chelsea caught her, she’d be in big trouble.
Tugging her hand back, she surreptitiously rubbed it against her dress. It was impossible to think with him touching her. She focused on the one painting her boss had allowed her to hang, and that was because one of the featured artists had come up short. It wasn’t something the gallery would normally display—something else Chelsea had repeatedly informed her—but Luna was proud of her work.
“Why the gray wolf?” The way he worded his question had her glancing sharply his way. His profile was strong, his jaw firm. Her fingers itched to capture his profile on paper. He gave the impression of a man holding himself under tight control.
“I’ve always had a fascination with wolves.” Most children had stuffed teddy bears or dolls. She’d gravitated to a plush wolf one of her parents’ friends had given her, dragging it everywhere. As she’d grown, so had her interest until it had become an obsession. When she’d begun to draw, they’d been her favorite subject.
He angled his big body so he was facing her, blocking her view of the room and creating an intimate oasis. The intensity in his eyes, the flex of a muscle in his jaw had her backing up a step.
“Ah, I should get my boss. I work for the gallery.” She clamped her lips together, aware she was babbling. It was unlike her. She was known for her poise, the ease with which she dealt with clients. It was what made her good at her job.
Physical attraction aside, something about Kade triggered all her warning bells. She’d grown up surrounded by manipulative, self-centered, narcissistic people. Had learned how to sort them into two categories—harmless and dangerous. While she had no idea about his overall personality, he definitely fell into the second one.
This was a man used to getting what he wanted. For a man dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, he had the confidence of a man with money or power or both. When she went to go around him, he stepped in front of her, blocking her escape. “Answer my question. Why this particular gray wolf?”
