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Collecting the leash, I stomp off into the woods, calling her name. She has likely gone to the meadow where she went two days ago.

Blue trots at my side. He enjoys going for a walk, occasionally dashing through the forest undergrowth to the left or right before looping around to me.

Greta is not in the meadow. I plant my hands on my hips and glare across the sweeping field as I call my goat.

My glare soon fades. There are real wolves in these parts. They do not venture close to the pack heart, but farmer Tully from the local village mentioned them taking a couple of his lambs.

“Come on, Blue,” I say. “We will check the pond.”

She is not at the pond. I call as I walk, annoyance giving way to a deeper worry with every passing moment.

The sun rises high and begins to sink again. Maybe she has gone home.

…And maybe she has gone to the castle ruin.

I pause my walk and shift from foot to foot, full of indecision. This is not Greta’s fault. I should have fixed the fence after her first escape instead of using a length of twine…which she ate.

Only Wolf will be cross if I go to the old castle. Then he will tell Flint that there is no hope and send me to the human village.

He may also be cross with me anyway if he finds out I have been searching for Greta all day. Maybe he’s just a mean, grumpy wolf shifter and will order me to be sent to the village anyway.

“I’m a grown woman,” I tell Blue, feeling a little of my spirit rise. “We will check the castle and then go home. We shall be quick about it. Wolf doesn’t need to know. And anyway, he is not the pack leader. Flint is, and Flint has said I may stay.”

He woofs in agreement. Blue would agree to anything, so I cannot read much into this.

We go to the castle ruins.

“Blehehehe!” Greta is pleased to see me. Her belly is so round that she waddles as she trots over. Silly goat has been gorging herself!

I put the leash on her, muttering curses as we take the forest path home at a brisk walk.

We have not gone far when I hear a rustle to my right—Blue woofs. A wolf lopes alongside us while another dashes off.

Shifters. Clay and Glen, if I am not mistaken.

Oops.

“I’m going to be in so much trouble, Greta, and it is all your fault.”

Wolf is standing outside my cottage in human form when I arrive, wearing naught but a pair of leather pants.

I’m tired, irritable, charged with righteous anger, and ready to defend my actions.

I am also feasting my eyes upon the resplendent male who ties my tummy in knots. His hair is tawny colored, much like his wolf coat, and reaches his shoulders in shaggy waves. His broad-chested, hair-dusted upper body is thick slabs of muscle that taper down ridges of his abs and disappear into his pants. He is tall in human form, even for a shifter, and carries himself with the confidence innate to all of his kind, further enhanced by his many years as a pack enforcer responsible for protection. Every inch of him is beautiful and whatever form he might take.

He takes Greta’s leash from me and orders Blue to the barn. My hound slinks off knowing trouble is brewing. “What have you got to say for yourself, lass.”

I jut my chin and try to recall all the clever words I planned during the long walk back. Unfortunately, my mind strays to thinking about being put over Wolf’s lap.

“I had to fetch Greta,” I say a little sullenly. “It was not my fault.”

A tic thumps in his jaw.

He thumbs toward the cottage door. “Inside now.” Then he stalks off to put Greta back into her paddock, one with a freshly repaired fence, I note.

I don’t go inside but take a meandering route in that general direction. Going inside feels like admitting that I have done wrong. I have not done wrong. All I did was retrieve my wayward goat.

I’m still outside, feeling increasingly mutinous when Wolf strides back toward me. Without a word, he bends forward, plants his shoulder against my waist, and tosses me over.