Page 2 of Stalked By the Wolf

He popped up at a 7-Eleven in Colorado Springs, but he didn’t just fill up and leave. No. He stayed parked outside in his shitty pickup, watching. Waiting for something.

I knew he had to be in contact with some of the McGregor bears who fled the night Adrian killed their leader. I thought perhaps he was waiting for one of them, but no one ever showed.

Since I was an hour and a half away in Gold Creek, I wasn’t going to catch him that night, but the idiot paid with a credit card belonging to a woman named Claire Belmont. I figured the bastard probably just nicked it until I realized the card hadn’t had anyactivity until a couple of months ago. Murphy’s been using it ever since at petrol stations, fast-food restaurants, and once at an electronics store.

It usually doesn’t take a person two months to cancel a stolen credit card — unless she doesn’t realize it’s been stolen.

This makes me think that MurphyknowsClaire Belmont, so I do what I do best.

I start with a basic background check and credit report. I learn that Ms. Belmont is twenty-two, unmarried, and lives alone in a seedy apartment complex off Las Vegas Street. Given Murphy’s history, I’d expected a rap sheet, but Claire Belmont hasn’t had so much as a parking ticket, and she’s got a credit score of almost seven hundred. Not exactly the delinquent I’d been expecting.

Her place of employment is listed as a place called Nine Lives. A quick Google search brings up a strip club on the north side of town.

For some reason, my wolf keeps telling me that Claire Belmont is the key to finding Murphy. So I set about learning everything I can about the woman who’s been funding his life.

I find death certificates. Medical records. Even a student support plan from a high-school guidance counselor.

Texting myself her address, I pull up the street view of her apartment complex. It’s a run-down building that used to be a motel, located next to a strip mall with a liquor store, nail salon, and a Vietnamese restaurant.

Scouring social media turns up nothing apart from an account for a woman with the handle “ClaireWhoLovesCats.” She’s a pretty little thing with fair hair, blue eyes, and curls for days. This Claire makes videos of sad old cats that are up for adoption.

She can’t be Claire Belmont, and yet I can’t stop cyberstalking her until I’ve watched every video in her feed. Call it disbelief porn — as in, I can’t believe that people like her actually exist.

As a freelance pen-tester who spends sixty-plus hours a week trying to think like hackers and scammers, I’ve seen it all. Scammers pretending to work for the IRS. Phishers texting old people pretending to be their bank so they’ll give up their passwords. Creeps who hack home-security systems and plaster people’s private moments all over the internet. So the fact that there’s somebody out there trying to get a bunch of mangy old cats adopted fucking amazes me.

Reluctantly closing my laptop, I leave the shed where I keep all my tech and walk the short distance to my house. The sun has already dipped below the mountains, and the pretty blue gaze of ClaireWhoLovesCats is seared into my brain.

It’s official — I’ve been at this for far too long.

I’m dying to call up Adrian and tell him that I have a lead on Murphy. But I can’t bring myself to pick up the phone in case this trail goes cold.

I’ve done nothing but disappoint my alpha these last sixteen months. I won’t do it again.

As I emerge from my cyberstalking fog, I realize Ihaven’t eaten all day. I’ve been cooped up in my shed since early this morning, and my wolf is fucking ravenous.

Opening the fridge, I lean on the door and stare at the empty shelves. I normally get prepared meals delivered, but we recently got a fresh heaping of snow, so the delivery driver hasn’t been able to make it up to my place.

I like a good pho as much as the next guy, and it seems like the perfect excuse to pay Ms. Belmont a visit.

CHAPTER TWO

CLAIRE

My heart poundsin my throat when I see Dane standing on my doorstep. The guy is well over six feet tall, two hundred and fifty pounds, and looks as though he could crush my car if he just leaned on it wrong.

There was a time when I found the big, hulking man attractive. Now, the sight of him outside my apartment just makes me feel sick to my stomach.

Dane’s nostrils flare as he looks me up and down, and I instinctively cross my arms over my chest. The move causes my coat to fall closed over my middle, hiding the tiny bulge beneath my sweater.

I’ve never been a very good liar. My parents were tree-huggers who told us we could come to them with any problem, and as a result, I never learned to do it well.

I can’t let Dane catch on to the fact that I’m starting to look a little pregnant. He’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but if he thinks back to what we were doingthree and a half months ago, there’s a chance he’ll put two and two together.

“What are you doing here?” I ask softly, my voice wavering despite my best efforts.

Dane’s mouth twitches in a sickening grin that doesn’t meet his silver eyes. “Now that’s not any way to greet your man.”

“You’re not my man, Dane,” I grit out. “Not anymore.”

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