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Ruby

Four hours earlier…

I ’m standing at the bar of The Golden Trough, the most pretentious watering hole in Shiftown, where the drinks are overpriced, and the clientele is mostly hooved.

The Trough is all new money and new tech—crystal chandeliers reflecting off the smartphones of Shiftown’s elite. Pigs, horses, cattle, and prey shifters dominate the room, their expensive colognes and perfumes assaulting my sensitive nose.

My palms are sweaty around my sparkling water (fifteen dollars, highway robbery), and my tailored red pantsuit feels too tight.

It’s borrowed, by the way. I don’t do galas unless I have to. I do town halls and policy drafts and late-night ramen noodles.

The Annual Builders Association Gala is the last place any self-respecting wolf wants to be, but I’m here on official Wolf Preservation Committee business.

Specifically, to stop the Porkwell Brothers from turning the last piece of ancestral wolf territory into luxury condos with “authentic wilderness views.”

The irony is thick enough to choke on.

I spot exactly three other predator species, all wearing the same uncomfortable expression I’m probably sporting; the face of someone who knows they don’t belong.

The predators have become the outcasts, the unwanted, the lowest members of society, all because of our biology.

The bartender, a nervous-looking rabbit shifter with large white bunny ears, keeps a careful distance as he asks. “Another sparkling water, ma’am?”

“No, thanks.” I force a smile that doesn’t show too many teeth. Since the Predator Registration Act was passed five years ago, showing fangs in public can get you slapped with an “intimidation” fine.

I scan the room for my targets.

The Porkwell brothers are Shiftown royalty. Over three generations, their family transformed the city from a mixed forest-meadow ecosystem into a concrete jungle.

Their grandfather started with straw—cheap, fast builds on stolen land.

Their father graduated to sticks, expanding into lumber developments and log homes that carved deeper into the once-protected wilderness.

Now the three brothers specialize in brick and steel monstrosities that scrape the sky, hoarding the skyline like it’s their birthright.

Hamilton, Percy, and Prescott Porkwell—three little pigs who grew up to become very big problems for predator-kind. The Porkwell empire follows them: real estate, tech, and anti-predator politics.

And I’m determined to dismantle it one brick at a time.

I spot Hamilton, the eldest, holding court near the stage.

He’s all business—tailored suit stretched tight across his broad shoulders, gold watch catching the light as he gesticulates to Mayor Hoofington.

I can practically hear his oozing condescension from here, crafting deals and alliances that serve their agenda and crush ours.

“You’re not welcome here,” Hamilton had said to me at last year’s gala in those exact words. He wasn’t just referring to the event.

“Predators don’t belong in civilized Shiftown.”

I had almost been escorted out by security, saved only by the strategic arrival of the press. But this year, it’s different. This year, it will be me who does the kicking out.

My claws itch to wipe the smug right off his face.

But not yet. The time will come.

The youngest, Prescott, hovers near the tech display, probably pitching his latest “smart home” security system. His previous invention was specifically designed to detect predator heat signatures—the paranoid bacon strip.

He notices me watching and, unlike his brother Hamilton, who would scowl or ignore me entirely, Prescott offers a small nod of acknowledgment.

Once, at a city council meeting, he’d actually held the door for me and apologized when Hamilton had cut me off mid-speech. “Everyone deserves to be heard,” he’d murmured, earning a glare from his eldest brother.

He’s always been the odd pig out, more interested in his gadgets than in building developments. I wonder what secrets I could extract from him if I played my cards right.

I don’t see Percy, the middle brother. The architect.

The one whose signature appears on all the Wolfstone development plans.

The one I need to corner.

He’s the pretty boy with a ruthless signature stroke—designer stubble, golden-brown hair that’s always a little too perfectly tousled, and those smug, brown eyes that have probably undone half the city. Add a killer smile, and you’ve got a predator in a pig’s suit.

My plan is to catch him alone, hit him where it hurts, and make him reconsider his family’s latest atrocity.

I weave through the crowd as a group of cows and pigs giggle nearby.

Their animal traits are on full display—twitching ears, curled tails, cloven hooves peeking out from designer heels.

They look about ready to stampede the stage as they whisper and nod toward Hamilton, eying him like he’s the main course—ironic, considering they’re the ones built for slaughter.

Predators may be an endangered species around here, but one thing’s clear: the Porkwell’s are in no danger of losing their title of Shiftown’s most eligible bachelors.

What a joke.

Pigs are usually smaller, with more girth than height. But the Porkwell’s?

Those damn pigs have been blessed by the pork gods. They’re tall and trim, at least by swine standards, like they were made in a lab for high-end breeding. I guess it explains why cows drop their milk and pigs squeal for a piece.

My eyes swivel back to Prescott.

He taps away on a tablet, oblivious to the crowd around him. He has the same deep concentration in his eyes that I get when I’m working. It’s like the whole world disappears when I’m focusing. But it’s more than that—he’s not just absorbed in his work.

He looks nervous. Anxious, out of place in a way I recognize.

I brush past the crowd, determined to find Percy and make him listen.

I’m sure he’s around here somewhere, charming the pants off some unsuspecting female and casually avoiding me like the smug bastard he is. Can’t say I blame him; I wouldn’t want to face me either.

Every moment I waste is another moment the Wolfstone plans move forward. It’s another moment lost, and I can’t let this be last year all over again.

“Looking for someone?” A voice like velvet sounds just behind my right ear.

I don’t jump, but I’m rattled, nonetheless. I turn and find myself face-to-tusk with Percy Porkwell himself.

“Mr. Porkwell.” I take a step back and extend my hand professionally, noting that he’s better looking this close than under the harsh lighting of our often heated debates in court or in the multiple newspaper clippings plastered across my research board.

His eyes are sharp and intelligent, his tusks tastefully maintained, and his navy suit is clearly custom.

“Ruby Wolfhart, Wolf Preservation Representative.”

He takes my hand, and his grip is firm—warm.

“I know exactly who you are, Ms. Wolfhart. “We’ve met before. Several times, in fact. Though I don’t recall you ever offering a handshake.

And your opinion piece in the Shiftown Gazette last week called my family—let me see if I remember correctly—‘environmental terrorists with the foresight of lemmings and the ethical compass of vultures.’”

“I stand by my assessment.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “The vultures filed a speciesist complaint, by the way.”

“Of course they did.” I resist rolling my eyes. “Look, Mr. Porkwell—”

“Percy, please.”

“Mr. Porkwell,” I say, withdrawing my hand from his lingering grasp. “I’m here to discuss Wolfstone.”

He sips his amber-colored drink—whiskey, neat, I can smell it—and regards me with unexpected interest.

“I gathered as much. Though most activists prefer protest signs to formal wear. I must say, the suit is a good look for you.”

Is he… flirting with me? The absurdity of it makes me snort. “I’m not here to exchange pleasantries.”

“Shame. I find pleasantries with you can be quite… pleasant.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, and something warm and unwelcome flutters in my stomach.

I straighten my spine.

What is wrong with me?

This is Percy Porkwell—the same male whose signature appears on every document that’s slowly erasing my heritage. And yet, there’s something in the intelligence of his gaze that has my brain stumbling for the words to continue this verbal sparring match.

Dangerous territory, Ruby.

Focus.

“The Wolfstone development can’t proceed. That land isn’t just real estate—it’s the last protected territory where wolves can live according to traditional ways. Your luxury condos would destroy ancient den sites, hunting grounds, and—”

“And create affordable housing for two hundred families, plus commercial space for small businesses, and a public park,” he interjects smoothly. “I’ve read your objections, Ms. Wolfhart. I’m intimately familiar with every detail of your… position.” He leans in a fraction closer.

The way he says “position” makes my hair stand on end, and a shiver travels down my spine at his renewed closeness. I won’t back away this time. He needs to know I will stand my ground.

“You could build anywhere else,” I argue, trying to ignore how his scent—sandalwood, ink, and something distinctly male—is affecting me. “Why there? Why now?”

I must be losing my mind. Or maybe just my wolf instincts.

Percy leans even closer. I have to force myself not to retreat. “Why don’t we discuss this somewhere more private? The acoustics in here are terrible.” He speaks low and is so close now that I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck.

My instincts scream “trap.” This must be some kind of distraction tactic, but my curiosity—and something else I refuse to name—pushes me to nod. “Five minutes.”