Page 3 of Rust the Rejected
“Hey,Big Red, you finally made it. Got held up in a storage closet by a hot nurse checking your vitals?”
“The Love Doctor is available for private appointments—one or multiple patients per session. Leave your name and number after the beep.”
I growl in response to the jabs and guffaws of my best friends—Dylan Vang and Jagger Larson—as I enter the Wolf Den on Moon Island.
The hangout spot for the males on our pack’s private island set in Biscayne Bay—the body of water behind the barrier island of Miami Beach across from South Beach. The Wolf Den offers every luxury amenity and boys’ toys imaginable to entertain the males. A gym, steam room, sauna, bowling alley, game room, cinema, wet bars, and more allow us to relax in our true nature. No concern humans hear us growl when we lose. Or growl at Jagger and Dylan…
“Fuck off, losers. A human kid fell off a bike and fractured her arm right before my shift ended. A higher priority than shooting pool with you two,” I say as I select a cue stick from the wall rack. “Her olecranon took the brunt of the impact while the lateral epicondyle of her humerus suffered distal fracture—”
“Okay, Doc, we don’t need to hear your nerdy description of a broken arm. Get a drink and rack the balls already,” Dylan says, rolling his amber eyes to the ceiling. “We’re trying to have some fun here, you know.”
Jagger chuckles and claps me on the back as he strides to the wet bar.
“Rack the balls. What’ll you have to drink?”
I nod my thanks and ask for two fingers of aquavit—a nod to our Scandinavian Viking roots. Wolf shifters have a high tolerance for alcohol. It’s not getting drunk for us. Rather, we enjoy the taste.
“D., you want a refill?” Jagger asks, then takes Dylan’s old fashioned glass when he nods.
While I gather the billiard balls on the sand-colored felt of the modern desert pine pool table, Dylan sets the music playlist. I glance around the game room at the other males. Some play poker, laughing about a joke across the room. Four play pool at another table. A few gather around the wet bar watching a Miami Heat versus LA Lakers basketball game.
“Viggo and Tag can’t make it tonight. Viggo had an emergency at one of his clubs, and Tag was too mysterious about his reason to bow out,” Jagger says about our other best friends as he hands us tumblers.
He’s our pack’s Alpha in a long line of leaders of theBillionaire Wolves of Miami—as the other packs refer to us. With good reason, since we’re the most powerful pack in the South. Several millennia ago, Scandinavian Viking wolf shifters sailed from the Old World and landed along the East Coast of what’s now the United States. The six packs moved throughout the continent to form territories, with ours settling here.
Jagger continued the Larsons as our pack Alphas, despite Dylan’s misguided challenge. Fortunately, the two reconciled recently. We’ve been best friends since we were pups. Now in our late twenties—except for Viggo, who’s twenty-six—we can enjoy our friendship for decades to come. Including tonight, and it’s the distraction I need.
The three of us play a few rounds of pool as we rib each other and talk about work. Aside from being the Alpha, Jagger serves as the CEO of Larson Enterprises, Inc. It’s the source of our pack’s wealth with its luxury hotels, fine dining, clubs, and lounges throughout our territory across the south. Dylan made his billions with an early investment and spends his time competing in an underground fight club in New York City.
Viggo and Tag work with Larson Enterprises as President of Clubs and Lounges and COO and are Jagger’s younger brother and beta, respectively. Dylan and I chose to work outside of the company.
My need to be a doctor driven by wanting to care for our pack and the horrible memory of a male driven to madness because he never mated. A flash of the vision of him running wild as his wolf attacking other members in the Everglades—where our pack has a camp compound—makes me shudder. I hit the billiards ball at the wrong angle. It skips past the corner pocket and bounces off the top rail. Lost in thought, I barely hear Jagger.
“Damn, Rust! What are you aiming at?Myballs?”
Dylan throws his head back and roars in laughter. Others turn to our table and grin at his infectious guffaw.
“Not the Larson family’s jewels. The gods forbid!”
Jagger’s ice blue eyes narrow at Dylan, who wipes tears from his eyes.
“You’re a regular comedian, D. These jewels already sired fraternal twin pups with my gorgeous fated mate, Sage. And she wouldnotappreciate any damage to my extraordinary package,” Jagger says with a smirk.
I laugh. But inside, an ache stabs my heart.
After all these years, Jagger and Dylan found their fated mates—even with Dylan not believing in the concept. The lucky bastard claimed a beautiful Russian she-wolf. Jagger’s Sage is the stunning and powerful High Witch of the Coven of the South turned she-wolf and our pack’s Luna. Now, she wields never-before-seen magick because of his DNA mixing with hers. I delivered their twins despite Jagger’s growling because a male was near his fated mate, especially being up close and personal with her most private areas. It’s part of my responsibility to our pack regardless of the males’ possessiveness of their mates, fated or otherwise.
I believe wholeheartedly in fated mates. Yet, I haven’t found mine. Each year I get older, and the fear of the madness affliction striking me grows stronger. Meanwhile, two of my best friends enjoy the bliss of a fated mate bond. Damn.
“Yeah, well, my jewels filled my beauty with a pup,” Dylan responds, then turns to me. “And you better not fuck up when it’s time for her birth. I damn sure wish we had a female doctor. I don’t want your eyes and your hands anywhere near my Sasha.”
I shrug and say, “The she-wolves I care for do not differ from any other patient. I have no further interest than to help them with their medical requirements.”
Dylan huffs and sips his aquavit, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. Then he pulls his mobile from his jeans pocket. A grin spreads across his face, and his amber eyes gleam as they scan the screen. His fingers fly across it as he types.
“Well, fellas, it’s been a pleasure. But I gotta go. My fated mate requests mint chocolate chip ice cream, and I vowed to give her all her heart’s desires. And then some!”
He claps Jagger and me on the back and strides towards the door.
