Page 2 of Cowboy Wolf Christmas

Silas pushed past the other wolf, prowling into the warmth of the main hall as he headed toward his new leader’s office. The Grey Wolves would never trust him. Not in the way they trusted Wes. The ghosts of his past would always haunt him. Every Christmas.

And the Grey Wolves would never allow him to forget it.

* * *

When Silas enteredthe packmaster’s office, Maverick Grey sat at his behemoth of a desk, wearing a pair of glasses that should have belonged to a wolf twice his age. In spite of the hair tied at the nape of his neck and the black tattoos poking out from beneath his long-sleeved flannel, from the way the Grey Wolf packmaster poured over the ranch’s ledgers, he looked like Ebenezer Scrooge himself. Though Silas was no warm-hearted Bob Cratchit.

At his entrance, the packmaster glanced up, squinting at him slightly through the gleam of the gold lenses before he removed the half-moon spectacles. He cast them onto the desk beside his old, battered Stetson, before lifting a brow expectantly. In the glow of the firelight, the gesture highlighted the notched scar there, a holdover from an old knife wound by an enemy rogue wolf, or so Silas had been told.

Among their kind, too often legend held truth.

“I can see better in wolf form,” Maverick mumbled, his deep voice filling the room. He gestured to the now-folded glasses.

Silas fought not to roll his eyes. Of course he could. By his birth right Maverick-fucking-Grey had been gifted every bloody power a wolf could possess. Silas wasn’t bitter about it. Really.

“Sit.” Maverick nodded toward a high-backed chair, not hesitating to dole out commands, before he closed the ledger he’d been reading.

Silas dropped into one of the armchairs, taking in the space he’d occupied only a handful of times before as he waited for the packmaster to finally lay into him. Ever since he’d arrived at Wolf Pack Run he’d been blamed for everything from bad crops to dead animals to a particularly bad bout of fleas that’d been passed around several of the packmembers while in wolf form back near the end of summer. But whatever it was this time, he was prepared for it.

The interior of the office was cozy, warm. Full of dark wood shelves and large-bound tomes which detailed the Grey Wolves’ long history. Few who took it at face value would recognize it as the helm of their security room, the central command for all the pack’s tactical plans. But whoever was in charge of decorating at Wolf Pack Run had taken care to ensure that, lining the bookcases with boughs of holly and even going so far as to add a small, pine tree behind the packmaster’s desk. The fresh scent of it permeated the room, its crimson and gold ornaments glittering in the warm glow of the fireside.

Maverick leaned onto his desk, watching Silas with rapt attention. “I have a favor to ask.”

“A favor? Or an order?” Silas didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. No point in beating around the bush. “Or is there something else you plan to blame me for?”

The packmaster leaned back in his executive seat, examining Silas like he was some frustrating puzzle none of the pack had managed to solve. “Would you prefer an order, warrior?”

“Orders are all you give. Orders and blame,” Silas answered.

Maverick pawed a large hand through the scruff of his beard, before he let out a short huff. “I won’t sugarcoat it then.” He ran his tongue over the pointed canines of his teeth. “I need you to go to Missoula tonight.”

“Fuck no,” Silas snarled. He didn’t move from his chair. There were few things he wouldn’t do, butthiswas one of them.

“It’s an order, warrior.”

Silas froze, his hands gripping the chair arms, shoulders tight. The choice wasn’t his to make. For a moment, he stared at the rough patches on the palm of his hand, the tips of his fingers, more prevalent now from all the ranch work, before slowly clenching his hand into a fist. “No,” he said again. “No. I won’t do it. You know the ghosts that wait for me there, especially this time of year.”

“It’s not up for discussion.” Maverick’s eyes flashed to his wolf. “The vampires have been more active than ever. You know this season’s rules. No one leaves the ranch unless it’s in pairs, and I need someone to escort the pack mechanic up to the old subpack ranch. A part on one of the snowplows is broken and unless we want the entire compound iced over, you’ll go to Missoula to retrieve the part.”

Silas’ lip curled. “You’re doing this to torture me. Put me through my paces.”Maverick scowled in return. “If I wanted to torture you, I could without consequence. We both know that.” Maverick’s gaze met his and stayed there. “Should anything happen, no one will fight the vampires harder than you.”

Silas didn’t doubt it, and yet . . .

He didn’t know which was worse: the shock of fury he felt at the prospect of Maverick toying with him or the pity which now softened the packmaster’s features. Silas scowled again.

The pity. Definitely the pity.

“I understand it won’t be easy for you, but I won’t trust anyone else with it.”

Silas scoffed, starting to rise from his chair. “You don’t trust me either.”

“That’s the whole goddamn point,” Maverick growled, baring his teeth in return. “Sit down, warrior.” He nodded to the armchair again.

Silas felt himself hesitate, but reluctantly, he did, though fuck if he knew why.

Maybe to prove he wasn’t the enemy he’d once been.

Maverick watched him for a long beat, eyeing him like he couldn’t get a read on him. “If you expect to be a part of this pack, you’re going to learn that trust isn’t given. It’s earned.” Maverick met his gaze. “And this is your chance to earn mine.”

---