Chosen Wolf by Julia Talbot w/s Minerva Howe

About Chosen Wolf

                                                                             Author: Julia Talbot writing as Minerva Howe

Word Count: 32500

Page Count (pdf): 123

ISBN: 978-1-942831-83-9

Price: $2.99

Pairing: m/m

Series: Moonlight Mountain Book 1

Genre: Paranormal

Date Published: 09/20/2018

Publisher:  Turtlehat Creatives

Heat Rating: 

File Types available: pdf, epub, mobi in a single zip file

Summary:

Brantley is perfectly happy with his life. He has a good job, a strong wolf pack behind him, and a trip into Denver every so often to take care of his needs. So when the Pack has the kind of meeting that only happens once in a blue moon, he’s more annoyed than worried. At least until the meeting turns out to be the stuff of Pack legend, with a vampire appearing to choose a new guardian from all of the eligible male wolves.

Vampire Paul has a good arrangement with the Moonlight Mountain pack. He gets to choose a wolf as his guardian, and they get a draught of his blood to strengthen their line. His connection with Brant is immediate, and he knows Brantley will be the first guardian in maybe centuries who will match him need for need. Paul likes games of dominance, likes to put his guardians to the test. Brantley is pretty sure he doesn’t even like men, let alone a vamp who’s into whips and chains. Can Paul convince Brantley that they really are made for each other?

Author’s note: This is a previously published story with a new edit and new material. The publisher has changed. This is a paranormal fated mates story that contains strong elements that some readers may find darker.

Excerpt:

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jerome, you mean to tell me that both the files are corrupt? Look, ski season is almost on us, and this is the bulk of our cash flow.” Brantley was going to lose his shit. Totally. Honestly. This was the only way this bullshit place made money, and the marketing guys were attempting to fuck him on the web design? He didn’t think so.

“Hey, don’t growl at me, asshole. I’m just telling you the reservation form for lift tickets is down.”

“Then fix it. The last thing I need is Charles riding my ass about how fucking dangerous innovation is!”

“Yeah, yeah. You just don’t want Charles near your ass.” Jerome could be such a dick.

“No shit on that. Fix the code. Make it work.” Brantley stormed over to his little office, praying that he could hide the rest of the day. He needed a beer. Maybe he’d drive down into Denver, spend the weekend goofing off. Boulder would work, too, except it was a little crunchy-granola for the true anonymous experience.

The last thing he wanted to do was ski, though, so definitely one of the bigger cities.

Charles appeared in his office doorway maybe ten seconds later, as if he’d been summoned.

Goddamn it. “Hey, man. We’re working on the lift issue. I’m on it.”

“Not the problem. I just want you to hang close this weekend. We have a special event coming up.” Charles appeared…gleeful.

“I’m not working this weekend, man. I got plans in Denver.”

“This isn’t about work. This is about the pack.”

He looked at Charles. “Seriously? I put in eighty hours a week for you, and you’re pulling the fucking Alpha card?”

“I am.” Charles bared his teeth, suddenly looking like the head wolf he was. “All males between twenty-one and fifty are required to attend.”

Brantley rumbled right back, furious. “Fine. I’m counting it as work time and I’m taking off for a few days after.”

“Sure.” Something weird glinted in Charles’ eyes for a moment, but whatever it was, Charles let it go. “Eight o’clock.”

“Morning? Night? And this is Saturday?”

“Night. At the old meeting house. Saturday.” Charles left him, and Brantley sat back in his chair, surprised. The meeting house hadn’t been used in decades. Not in his lifetime. Elaine went in once a month to clean, and the utility guys did a check once a year. That was it.

God, he hated this “let’s be a pack” shit. The world was a goddamn global community now; there was no more local, not really. And the pack was a joke. Their little pack was a thriving tourist industry now, much like a Native American tribe with a casino.

It was healthy and happy. All he asked for working his ass off was a little down time on the weekends, maybe a sweet piece of ass to share it with.

This? This sucked.

Needing to vent, he grabbed his phone and called his buddy, Malcolm, who worked in engineering.

“Hello?”

“Hey, man. Did you get the directive?”

Malcolm snorted. “I did. Assholes. Why can’t we meet on a Wednesday?”

“No shit, dude. What the fuck is up? You hear anything?”

“Nope. I mean, it’s at the old meeting house, you know? I’ve always heard that was serious, like something really bad was happening.” Malcom sounded less than amused.

“I know. You think he’s stepping down?” How weird would that be? Charlie was in his prime.

“Fuck, no. I mean, it would make the most sense with who’s been called, huh? Maybe, he has cancer.” Not that cancer was likely in their breed.

“Nah. That would suck.” Charlie was a dick, but he wasn’t evil.

“I know.” Malcom hooted, the sound familiar, the same ever since they were kids. “I don’t know, man. I speculate, but I don’t know.”

“Damn it. I’ll call Hank.” Brantley hated not knowing shit.

“Good luck, man,” Malcolm said. “See you tomorrow night.”

“Uh-huh.” Fuck. No nookie for him. Damn it. Still…he could be on his way out of town by Sunday morning. Back by Tuesday. That worked, too. Not as much competition. Not as much opportunity either, but it would have to do.

He jumped when the phone rang, Jerome’s number showing up. Damn it, he was working on Jerome’s project. But he picked up. “Hello?”

Brantley shook his head when Jerome droned on and on about corrupt files. Last thing he needed was some meeting with all the boys. The testosterone level would be amazing and kinda awful.

Such fun.

Maybe there’d be beer. Hell, maybe if he was really lucky, Charles would spring for food. The guy did like his burgers, and a town meeting of dudes was a good opportunity.

If nothing else, maybe Brantley could network. At least, hang with Malcolm and swap porn links. The man had the best shit, which was so not fair, because Brantley was the computer whiz.

“…you even listening to me?”

“What? Sure. Sure I am. Tell me again.”