Wrong Side of the Pack (Hunted Blood Book 1), page 1
The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Amazon Original
Amazon Soft Back published by Tilly Tiason.
Copyright © 2021 by Tilly Tiason.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, the point of contact is Tilly Tiason via email at TillyTiason@gmail.com.
ISBN (paperback): 9798478764777
Cover Design by Christine Gerardi
Editing by Randy Vell/Sarah Mayor
Copyedited by EdiTask, Inc.
Illustrated by BZ Kong
Proofreading by EdiTask, Inc.
Printed in the USA
18+
This series is not appropriate for readers under 20 years of age. If you are squeamish about violence, sexual content, depression, inappropriate language, or gore, Wrong Side of the Pack may not be suitable for you. Thank you for exercising your personal discretion before continuing.
For Matt.
Goodbye, Matt. We all love you.
Our lives will never be the same without you.
CONTENTS
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
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Acknowledgments
Also by Tilly Tiason
About the Author
I liked to run with werewolves.
My world and its problems would come to a standstill like a broken clock when we ran, as if time captured and froze every issue I ever had until I was ready to come back and face it. The weight of my troubles lifted off my shoulders and dispersed into an imaginary cloud. Even those problems I once had… well, forgotten. I’m not sure why this happened, but when it did, I couldn’t stop running.
I was no Molly Huddle; I’d never even been to the Herculis meet in Fontvieille, Monaco. I was more of a jogger, to be honest, but when the clean crisp Carolina air slapped my lungs, the adrenaline was just too good.
The werewolves were locked in my sight on this particular day; they were too far ahead of me, so I ramped it up a notch. My feet flew over rocks and leaves, running so fast that I thought my legs would explode. The wolves' paws thumped a cadence against the soft earth as they gained their own pack-rhythm. Just when I thought Molly and I could be neck-and-neck if this were the Herculis Diamond run, I realized that I was only trailing behind the pups of the pack. But at least now I could discern the pack members.
I passed a swamp; algae floated on the still surface of murky tepid water. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a sunlit clear spot as I passed, my black hair flowing in the reflection like a ribbon in the wind. On my right, a few wolves on the opposite side of the swamp broke into full speed as the leader barked.
These werewolves were the mud dogs of South Carolina known as the Wetland Pack. We ran the swamps, despite the fact they were usually wet and always hard to travel through. Heck, if I was a wolf, I’d challenge rival packs any day to claim this land; I loved it out here. It was at no great distance from town, but slip a hundred yards from the nearest road and it seemed as far away and remote as it needed to be.
Cypress knees protruded from the shallows, and tree roots covered in fungus and moss reached out to trip the unwary runner. But there was a sense of tranquility in this place, and I never wanted to leave; I wanted the mud in between my toes, dirt beneath my fingernails, and to be consumed by mother nature.
The weirdest thing in my life at this stage was that I knew werewolves existed. It topped number one on my list of weird shit, in conjunction with the fact that they let me run with them, even on hunts. Like today.
The werewolves picked up the pace as they caught the scent of a Whitetail that bolted from a stand of alders in the distance. Mud spewed at me as the pups broke into a full sprint, kicking up the wet dirt with their paws.
The deer charged through a boulevard of bald cypress, the pack closing on it steadily. A reddish-brown wolf circled back from its group to meet me. It playfully nipped at my hip; that would be Clay, my human-time beau. He pounced and tackled me in the mud. We rolled in the wet dirt, him faking a snarl and me not faking squeals of glee, until my clothes were completely muddied, and my long black hair stuck together like one big gooey cheese ball.
A smile drew across my face as we broke for a second, and the ends of Clay’s lips curled on his long snout. The attraction swirled between us likes invisible ropes pulling us closer until we were almost nose-to-nose. I was with a werewolf, and he was with a human; usually an ugly scene, and always a romance forbidden. But his Skittles-yellow eyes glowed as if he was staring into the stars, not at a potential meal, and twinkled like silver pins as I combed my fingers through his thick mane.
A few enormous wolves passed us, scouting the air with uplifted snouts as they traced the path of the fleeing Whitetail. The largest of them, his gray fleece flecked with red, was our alpha, Wyatt; he liked to run at the rear of the pack, where he could monitor everything going on at the fore. His eyes cut to us momentarily. Clay paused; his head lowered quickly in a gesture of submission. I snapped my hands to my side and lowered my gaze. Clay untethered himself from the stringy mud and pushed onward. I stayed, still at respectful attention; a human in a wolf pack was usually a bad omen, which was why Wyatt always gave us that look.
The Alpha had no right, however, to interfere with a mate bond… and that is exactly what Clay said we had. I don’t know how long we could keep this “bond” act going; at some point we’d have to prove we were mates. The alpha waited for the right time to either see that proof or declare our bond invalid, merely attraction.
He strode past without so much as a glance my way, as if I were a dust particle he could just blow off his shoulder. I rolled my eyes when he couldn’t see them in his peripheral; get over it, mutt, I’m here to stay.
Behind the leader of the pack, a large black wolf trailed him. Its blue eyes, glinting in the corners like glass shards beneath the sun’s rays, swung in my direction momentarily. Trying not to smile, I nodded at the black wolf.
When I was back on my feet, I continued moving. Not far to go now; the deer’s line of flight had become a circle as wolf after wolf flanked its left side, forcing it back toward the oncoming pack. The pack whirled around the deer now, biting its ankles and snapping at its throat. There were ten wolves that ambushed the prey as it was forced to swerve right again and again… but instead of ending its life in a pile-on, they clawed and tore at its flesh. The creature collapsed on the ground and just when I thought they'd end the torturing . . . they didn’t. One wolf with a black pelt and a silvery-tipped tail put a massive forepaw on its head and applied pressure while the others just sank their fangs into any exposed flesh.
My heart pounded slowly. The worst part of this was that I every time I saw it, it somehow it got easier to watch. That’s just how they liked to eat. I averted my gaze after a moment, then looked back as one wolf snapped its jaws around the deer’s neck, breaking the vertebrae and ending its consciousness.
One wolf within spitting distance of where I stood eyed me, her brows furrowed. The sides of her lips curled, revealing creamy white canines, and a hard growl rose from the depths of her abdomen. Her fleece was as white as a sheet of snow. That would be Chloe, a real bitch in either form, and though I couldn’t hear the white wolf-form’s thoughts, I knew what she was thinking. Why was I here?
But sometimes I wonder the same thing; why am I here? Humans and werewolves – a dangerous mismatch. As I approached the feeding circle, the white wolf slunk to one side and then nipped my leg before scuttling off into the heart of the woods. The sharp pain rippled through my nerves. I pulled up my sweats to look at the calf; there was a small nick, but it was red and irritated. That bitch!
Trying not to make a scene in front of the pack members, my lips curled into a smile as I ignored the throbbing in my leg. I had gotten good at hiding pain from the wolves early on; they could smell fear and spot weakness, and either trait had a tendency to put them in predator mode. Chloe had a tendency to stay in that mode when I was around; Clay told me he had handled it, but now I was starting to think he hadn’t done much.
The bones of the whitetail splintered, cutting my focus away from my thoughts. The raw metallic smell of blood lingered in the air as the creature’s body oozed crimson from the gashes and torn skin. When the wolves finished eating, we all ran (conside
The mud dogs lived in a half-circle of cabins, five members to each cabin. The pine-plank and tin-roofed semicircle was a left-over from the plantation days, and had been restored, more or less, back at the turn of the century. It wasn’t pretty, but it was functional, and at least the pitched roofs didn’t leak. Much.
The Alpha, Wyatt Maledda, had a select few that stayed with him; all males except Chloe (that bitch), his “inner circle” was comprised of two Betas, a Delta, and a Sentinel. That’s what he called the watch dogs – “Sentinels”. When one of his inner circle found a mate, they would move out to be with their families and a new, single member would move in as the sentinel.
The pack soldiered around his cabin as Wyatt stood on the top steps. His team – Chloe and Liam, who were the Betas, Clay (a Delta), and Abraham the Sentinel stood below him on the lowest step. Wyatt had a shaved head and was covered with freckles from his cheeks down to his waist. When he spoke, everyone stopped whatever they were doing and listened.
I don’t think they stopped just because he was the Alpha; that man had a way of charming people like Kaa charmed monkeys in The Jungle Book. I rarely spoke to Wyatt, but when I did, he’d tell wonderful stories about Peru, and winning matches against other Alphas there. He told me once how he won Chloe like that, and about the waves she made when she moved into his pack. He didn’t even have feelings for or interests in her, it was the fact that he could take whatever he wanted that made him so proud.
He cleared his throat to get his pack-members’ attention.
“I expect you all to get a good night's rest. It was a wonderful family’s day today, thank you all for being here. Start your chores in the morning and have everything done by dinner. Anyone slacking will be punished. As a few of you have noticed, one of our Deltas thought the rules didn't apply to him, and where is he now? Alone, and probably going to starve. I expect nothing but the highest of standards in the Wetland Pack… because WE are the meanest sons o’ bitches – and bitches – in the valley!”
A howl of laughter and raucous cheers went up; someone shouted, “Damn straight!”
Wyatt looked over his pack, his benign expression belying the massive ego wrapped in the brain behind those steel-grey eyes. “Goodnight,” was all he said then, and the members went their separate ways. Clay shook hands with Wyatt then left to join my side; “How did you like the family festivities today?” he asked.
“Nothing beats running with a pack of werewolves, I’ll admit.”
Clay’s soft baby blues smiled at me. “I think I can say a lot of members were happy you could be here. We don’t get that many humans that join us.”
“Yeah, it was wonderful. Invite me to the next one.”
“Plan on it. Love you, Ramona.” Clay leaned down for a kiss.
“I love you too,” I replied.
I said goodbye to the pack and took an Uber back home. I didn’t relish the idea of any of my wolven friends meeting my family. I’m sure everything would have worked out okay, sooner or later, but my family had a weird way of introducing themselves. That’s why Clay never drove me home.
If I brought Clay home, my uncle would do his menacing ex-con act before Clay even finished his pleased-to-meet-you; “Don’t break my niña’s heart. I got a lot of friends from prison who would love to pop a cap on you.”
My grandmother would ask me, “Why him? Couldn’t you have struck it up with a doctor?”
Cousin Adalia would have said, “But he’s white . . .”, as if we don’t have enough problems in the world with people disagreeing over biracial couples.
And who knows what else anyone might spout off. With the state of my father’s mind, I didn’t know how he’d handle it, and I didn’t want to test it, either. I lived twenty minutes away from the Wetlands Pack’s cabins, and I couldn’t afford a car on my salary… never mind my inability to control my spending habits. What can I say, being a shopaholic was an illness.
So, I rode to work with a friend and Uber’d home from the pack’s den. Sometimes, ya gotta keep ‘em separated.
I arrived home about dark-thirty. Home was our two-story house with vines grappling up the sides of the brick walls, opened windows with black curtains wavering in some constant restless breeze, a yard unkempt and littered with dead shrubs and trash. On a day-to-day basis, I’m greeted with emptiness. No matter how crowded the house was with family portraits, furniture, and a 60-inch flat screen that no one ever turned off even though there was never anything interesting on, it seemed even lonelier with everything there. My father never turned on the lights or opened the curtains. Darkness stayed in this house.
I preferred not to come home. My father wandered the house like a ghost, wallowing and groaning as he walked around. His presence was the most haunting part of this home. He wasn’t well, and he hadn’t been for a long time.
I headed straight for the kitchen and stopped in the door, watching my dad stare into the fridge. He wore a plaid button-up and his black hair was spiked like a ‘90s updo. The refrigerator light lit up the dingy room.
“Hello, papa.”
He said hello back without looking over his shoulder. His stony impersonal voice sent shivers down my spine, as always. A heavy weight settled in my gut; almost too scared to ask, even when I knew the answer, I sighed; “When’s the last time you took your medicine?”
He closed the fridge and spun on the soles of his boots. And took a big whiff of the air, a concerned look moving about on his face. “I’m not sure.” He paused, his eyes tethered to the empty spot in the kitchen by the door. Almost as if his mind’s lost. My heart ached to the sounds of silence. The weight in my chest was heavy and burned as if someone pulled an invisible string.
“Dontcha think you should take it now?”
“If I take it now, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”
“Right, it slipped my mind.” I looked at the countertops to see if he’d done any of the chores. Dishes piled on top of each other cluttered the kitchen counters. “Didn’t feel like doing the dishes today, papa?”
“Sorry.” His eyes shut and he released a sigh of disbelief. I walked over to the sink and started working on them. “No worries. What’s for dinner?” I started stacking the wet dishes into the drying rack; I could hear my dad’s shoes click on the floor. “Do you want me to cook anything? Should I order something, whatcha in the mood for? I’m leaning toward pizza. Ham and mushrooms. What about you?”
The clicking of shoes stopped; I glanced over my shoulder in that direction. My father had withdrawn from the kitchen without a single word. A wave of concern swept over me; I stopped washing the dishes and followed his path to find my dad having a seat on our living room sofa and pulling a blanket over his lap.
The ID channel was on, and my father’s eyes turned to stone as he watched. I planted a seat beside him, placing my head between his shoulder and jaw, and watched along. This was my every night. Dishes unwashed. Dad sat in front of the television, I joined him on the couch, and we went our separate ways after nine o’clock.
I liked to think of this as father-daughter time, as it was the closest I’d ever get. The doctors swore my dad would get better and the medicine just needed a few weeks to kick in. It had been a year now and no matter how many kinds of antidepressants he took, he just got worse.
He won’t talk about it or let me know when it’s worse than usual, but it becomes tougher to communicate with him as the days pass or when he starts new meds. I’m not even sure when we stopped talking to each other. One day he’s burning a frozen pizza in the oven, and we laugh about it. And the next day, he can’t cook. From there, the words started hanging off his tongue like an anchor.
