Page 1 of Riding with the Rejected Wolf

MIKA

Hairspray is Flammable, Who Knew?

Three days. Three freaking days I've been living off beef jerky, stolen peaches (sorry, not sorry, Mr. Orchard Guy), and the lingering hope that one day I'll find a decent cup of coffee in the middle of this godforsaken wilderness.

Don't get me wrong, Montana is beautiful. All majestic mountains and forests that go on forever. It's like stepping into a postcard, except this postcard has a serious mosquito problem and a distinct lack of Wi-Fi.

But hey, at least it's quiet. Well, except for the rustling leaves, the chirping crickets that sound suspiciously like tiny laughing demons after midnight, and the occasional twig snapping under my very own hiking boots.

Speaking of boots, mine are killing me. Seriously, who needs a cute pedicure when you can have blisters the size of silver dollars instead? It's all part of the glamorous life I lead these days.

I adjust the backpack straps, trying to convince myself that the weight is building character. Or at least upper body strength. A girl's gotta look on the bright side, right?

The sun is setting, turning the sky into a fiery mess of orange and pink. It's actually quite pretty, in a "nature is trying to distract me from the fact that I have no idea where I'm going" kind of way.

I find a clearing and decide to call it a night. Setting up camp is a generous term for what I manage to do. It involves unrolling a sleeping bag I'm pretty sure I bought at a garage sale five years ago and propping myself up against a tree that looks sturdy enough not to crush me in my sleep.

I dig through my backpack, searching for the one luxury item I refuse to live without: my travel-sized can of hairspray. A girl's gotta have standards, even in the wilderness.

Except, when I pull it out, it's not alone. There's a small white envelope tucked beside it.

My heart stutters to a stop.

No. No way.

I snatch the envelope, my fingers trembling as I rip it open. Inside, a single sheet of paper with a message scrawled in his jagged handwriting:

*You can run, but you can't hide. I'll always find you.*

A wave of dizziness washes over me. I press my back against the tree, my breath catching in my throat. He knew I was planning on running? Why won’t he just leave me alone?

SILAS

Another Day, Another Dollar (Not That I Need Anymore)

The Broken Diner buzzes with the usual Saturday morning chaos. The sizzle of bacon, the clatter of cutlery, the boisterous laughter of the early bird crowd—it all washes over me, meaningless noise. I like it that way. Noise means nobody is paying attention to me, the guy nursing a cup of coffee that has long gone cold.

"Brooding again, Tracker?" A heavy hand claps down on my shoulder, jarring me back to the present.

I don't need to look to know it's Kade, my—well, I wouldn't call him a friend, not anymore. More like a brother I never had. We're the kind of family woven together by shared dirt under our nails and scars on our knuckles. Not by blood, that’s for sure. Unless you count the spilled kind. Each and every one of us at the Devil’s Pack MC is a shifter who, for some reason or other, lost their tie to the pack they were born into. For some of us, it was our choice, for others, not so much. Me? Well, let's just say I've never been a fan of sticking around when someone doesn’t want me.

"What can I say? It's my default setting," I respond with a smirk.

"Right." Kade chuckles, settling his bulk into the booth across from me. "Because nothing says 'good morning' like a face that could curdle milk."

"Must be why you drink your coffee black," I retort, taking a swig of the bitter liquid. "Can't risk seeing your reflection."

Kade's laugh booms through the diner, earning a few disapproving glances from the other patrons. But he just waves them off, dismissing their irritation while he launches into a story about the new prospect the club is looking at, some hotshot panther shifter with a need for speed and a death wish on two wheels.

I tune in and out, the words washing over me like the noise of the diner. My mind keeps drifting back to the fact that the wolf shifter who was supposed to be my fated mate—the one who rejected me—had the audacity to reach out to me with a wedding invitation. Talk about a kick in the fucking guts.

My brain keeps turning it over, that glossy card with the cursive script that’s too fancy for my liking. The card that is now a pile of ash in the bottom of my fireplace. So much for letting sleeping dogs—or wolves—lie.

"Hey, Earth to Silas," Kade snaps his fingers in front of my face, and I blink back into the present. "You've been about as much fun as a root canal this morning. What gives?"

"Nothing, just thinking about that lead on the stolen bikes," I lie, my voice flat because the last thing I want to do is talk about the mate who rejected me, moving on with her life when I’m still caught in this fucked up limbo where my wolf doesn't know whether to howl at the moon in anger or settle into the bitter silence of rejection. But I bet she's not thinking about me as she shuffles down the aisle to another man. Hell, why should she? She made it clear I'm yesterday's news.

"Right. Your mind seemed miles away," Kade replies, eyeing me over the rim of his coffee cup.

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