The Sea Wolf's Mate Read online

  The Sea Wolf’s Mate

  Zoe Chant

  THE SEA WOLF’S MATE

  By Zoe Chant

  © Zoe Chant 2019

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Jacqueline

  2. Arlo

  3. Jacqueline

  4. Arlo

  5. Jacqueline

  6. Arlo

  7. Jacqueline

  8. Arlo

  9. Jacqueline

  10. Arlo

  11. Jacqueline

  12. Arlo

  13. Jacqueline

  14. Arlo

  15. Jacqueline

  16. Arlo

  17. Jacqueline

  18. Arlo

  19. Jacqueline

  20. Arlo

  21. Jacqueline

  22. Arlo

  23. Jacqueline

  Epilogue

  A note from Zoe Chant

  More Paranormal Romance by Zoe Chant

  Zoe Chant writing as Lia Silver

  Zoe Chant writing as Lauren Esker

  THE GRIFFIN’S MATE

  1

  Jacqueline

  “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number. Yes—no, I realize you dialed the number listed for the pizza parlor, but something’s wrong with the interchange and I’m afraid… This is the sheriff’s office, ma’am, I’m afraid I really can’t take your pizza order.”

  Jacqueline rubbed her forehead as the caller let her know just how unacceptable that was. This is what I get for taking the evening shift, she thought. That storm must have seriously messed with the phone lines. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted the boss when he said it was all sorted…

  She bit back a sigh, careful not to let even a hiss of breath escape. The last thing she wanted was the woman on the other end of the line thinking she was sighing at her. Even if it was kind of the truth.

  If the pizza-woman had been the first wrong number to call her today, that would be one thing. But no. The storm a few days back had come up from Hideaway Cove to the south, and like all bad weather that came from that direction, it had left havoc in its wake. Not only broken shutters and saltwater-whipped gardens, but electrical mix-ups. Computers went haywire, lights flickered… and phone lines got crossed.

  The sheriff’s office landline had somehow become mixed up with that of a pizza joint on the other end of town—and an auto shop, and the local kindergarten, and what felt like half the businesses within ten miles—and as if that wasn’t enough, the connection was bad.

  At least, Jacqueline assumed it was the bad connection that was making this caller squawk like a seagull descending on a garbage bin.

  She rubbed her forehead, waiting for the woman’s rant to come to an end.

  “I—oh. You’d like to make a formal complaint? About me not providing you with an appropriate level of service? Well, you go right ahead, ma’am. We have a contact form on our website, or… you’d like me to type it out for you? Of course. That will be no problem at all.”

  Jacqueline gritted her teeth as the woman on the other end of the line dictated a list of Jacqueline’s many sins. Including not taking her damned pizza order. Why don’t you blame me for the weather, as well?

  “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll make sure the sheriff receives this when he’s next in. Excuse me?” Jacqueline blinked. “Well, he’s…”

  At the Spring Fling, celebrating the fact that winter’s finally over. With the rest of the office, and most of the town… and my ex.

  Jacqueline swallowed. “…He’s out on another call at the moment, ma’am. But I’ll put your note on his desk for his priority attention.”

  There was a dangerous silence at the other end of the phone. Jacqueline thought the woman was rallying her strength for another attack—and then the other phone clattered against something, and the noise of excited shouts clamored down the line. Jacqueline closed her eyes. A teenagers’ party. Something the town put on to keep them out of trouble while everyone’s at the Spring Fling getting respectably tipsy… and this woman’s stuck babysitting. No wonder she’s annoyed.

  “Ma’am—”

  “Forget about it. My neighbor has brought over snacks. No thanks to you.”

  Jacqueline’s breath caught in her throat as the woman slammed the phone down. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she set down her own receiver. Gently.

  It doesn’t matter how good it would feel to slam it down. You know Reg would take any breakages out of your pay.

  And she couldn’t afford that. She was done. All the scrimping and saving, all the extra hours and odd jobs and humiliation—she just had to wait for her final check to clear, and it would all be over. She’d have finally paid down her home loan.

  She’d be free. Free to reclaim her life. Leave this crushingly small town and do all the things that had passed her by.

  And no way was her first home-loan-free paycheck going to go towards replacing broken office equipment. She was going to cut loose. Stay out late at clubs, wear short skirts and too much make-up, all the fun things she’d spent the last decade and a half missing out on. No ball and chain, no mortgage, no responsibilities—

  She flung herself back in her chair and spun around. When she stopped, she was looking straight at the oversized, framed family photograph that took pride of place on her boss’ desk.

  Five pairs of eyes stared back at her. Reg, his wife Susie, and their three beautiful children.

  A lump formed in her throat. She looked down, but all that did was draw attention to her outfit. She’d fretted over it all week, because the Spring Fling was going to be it for her. The mortgage was the last remnant of her old married life she’d been dragging behind her and now it was finally meant to be time for her fresh start.

  She was wearing a bra that the shop assistant had promised would give her “like, amazing self esteem”, a silky dress that shimmered when she walked—heck, she was even wearing heels…

  And then Reg had sauntered in just as she was putting the finishing touches on her make-up and said Oh, by the way, you know Deirdre can’t do the evening shift tonight because of her thing on the weekend, and I was wondering and he’d hmm’d and haww’d and gone on about and it’s Jonesy’s first Spring Fling since he made deputy and you know his Ma’s going to be so proud and Now young Marsha, it would just be a shame for her to miss out, what with her not making it to her prom last year and he’d made it the whole way around the office twice before getting to the meat of the matter:

  Jacqueline’s ex-husband would be at the party. And his new wife. And their kid.

  So Jacqueline took the night shift.

  She swallowed angrily, spinning back to face her computer.

  I’m done. Free. So what if I don’t make it to the Spring Fling? I don’t need it. I could move out, today—well, not today, maybe tomorrow—or next week—and start my super amazing, dirty thirties lifestyle in the city. I’ll live in an apartment, and drink cocktails with stupid names, and date, and—

  The phone rang again and all the anger Jacqueline had held back while she was talking to the pizza woman exploded. She snatched up the phone.

  “This had better not be another—”

  The line crackled so loudly Jacqueline pulled the phone away from her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut. Stay calm. Stay professional. Even that angry pizza lady is probably just pissed because she has to babysit while everyone else is at the Fling.

  The phone hissed and popped, and then a male voice quavered:

  “Hello?… calling… Hideaway…”

  Jacqueline’s heart sank. Is someone seriously calling to complain about the curse? Complaining about the weather was one thing, but…

  She sighed. Most people she knew joked about their neighboring town bein
g responsible for any problems they faced—everything from late buses to, yep, electrical problems after storms—but calling to lodge a complaint with the sheriff was going too far, surely?

  “Sorry, sir, can you repeat that please?”

  “Trying to call—is this Hideaway? Got the number from…” His voice crackled and faded out.

  Jacqueline rubbed her forehead. Not a curse complaint, then; just another crossed wire. “I’m sorry, sir, this is the Dunston sheriff’s office. I can try to transfer you…” And it’ll probably go through to the pizza place, knowing my luck.

  “No, I… trying to get to… left them… storm…”

  Jacqueline frowned. The voice on the other end of the line was male. His voice was deep, but it kept cracking, going up and down and wobbling with tension. Either she was imagining it, or the phone line was so bad it was making her hear things… or this guy was scared.

  Alarm bells started going off in her head, but she forced her voice to remain calm.

  “Sorry, sir, could you please repeat that?”

  There was another burst of static, and then: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do, but I left them there and now I can’t get back, the road’s closed and none of the buses are running and my car won’t start and I can’t get back to them—”

  “To who?”

  “I thought they’d be safe there, they’re only… too small… left them… marine reserve. Trying… get to Hideaway but I couldn’t call and now…”

  Jacqueline’s heart dropped. Too small? Is he talking about children? “I—you’re saying you left someone at a marine reserve? During the storm?”

  She could have hit herself. Stupid. Her job was to get the details and keep the caller on the line until she could get hold of someone to take action—not to berate them for whatever had made them call.

  Especially not if there were children involved. Jacqueline’s stomach clenched. She knew better than this. She couldn’t let her own situation affect her professionalism.

  “Sir, I understand if you don’t want to leave a name, but if you could let me know where you are—we’ll do whatever we can to help—”

  She thought he started to say something else, but then there was a roar like a huge engine—Or a storm—and the call cut out.

  Jacqueline stared at her computer screen.

  The call logger will have the details of the call, the organized, sober part of her brain reminded her, but she couldn’t focus on it. Her mind was miles away, in the open, exposed marine reserve that must have borne the brunt of the last week’s storms.

  She took a deep breath and glanced out the station’s front window. The massive storms had broken windows and torn down tree branches here. What might they have done out on the wild coast?

  Her hands moved automatically, probably because they had noticed her brain wasn’t capable at the moment. They picked up her mobile and called her boss.

  The call rang. And rang.

  “Hi, this is Reg—”

  “Boss, thank God. I’ve just had a distress call, I think, and it sounds like—”

  “—probably a bit busy at the moment, so leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Brent out.”

  Shit. Jacqueline grimaced. Answerphone. Of course. Because God forbid Reg actually take the “on call” part of his job seriously when there was punch and a live band on offer.

  She took a deep breath and waited for the beep.

  “Hi. Boss. This is Jacqueline. We’ve had a call reporting possible child abandonment at the marine reserve, up the coast. I’m going to go check it out. I’ll have my mobile with me if you need me.”

  The office seemed to ring with silence as she ended the call.

  I’m going up the coast.

  Of course she was. There was no way she could take that call, hear the panic in the guy’s voice, and not follow up. If it wasn’t a prank, and he’d actually for whatever reason left some kids at the marine reserve…

  She got up quickly, sending her office chair spinning away.

  “It’s probably just some teenagers having a joke,” she told herself out loud. Her voice echoed around the empty office.

  Good job, Jacqueline. You can’t even convince yourself.

  2

  Arlo

  Arlo furled the sails, letting the Hometide slip gently through the swell as the wind whipped through his hair. The sun had set, and soon the night would be so dark that the water turned black, nothing to separate it from the heavy canopy of sky. It was too cloudy for the moon to show, let alone any stars. The sailboat would seem to be drifting in space, only the distant lights on the coastline a reminder that the rest of the world existed.

  Even those few lights grated against Arlo’s skin. Later in the season, when the weather was more reliable, he’d sail further, away from the towns, away from streetlights and the glowing windows of people’s homes. Until it was just the sea, and the sky, and him. Maybe then he’d be able to get his head right.

  Arlo cursed and tied off the sail. The storms that had kept him landed for the last week had disappeared like smoke overnight, and he’d left Hideaway before first light, sliding out of the bay on still waters with his tail between his legs.

  And he didn’t even know why.

  Everything had been going fine. Work was good, and Arlo’s best friend Harrison had been preening like a peacock ever since he put a rock on his mate Lainie’s finger.

  Even Lainie’s plan to build more houses in Hideaway Cove was going well. Arlo was proud to be a part of the project. More houses meant more homes for shifters, and that was what Hideaway Cove was all about. Shifters always looked after their own.

  He, Harrison and the other builder on their crew, Pol, had celebrated the completion of the first house in the project the night before the storm hit. They’d broken out a few beers. Lainie had abstained, with a meaningful look at Harrison, and Pol had ribbed them both about how at least they’d finished their own house first, and then turned to Arlo and made a joke about which one of them would be next, and Arlo had been in a foul mood ever since.

  Hrngg? his wolf whined, and Arlo sighed.

  “Yeah, I know, buddy. It doesn’t make any sense. Blame it on the weather.”

  The storm had hit that night—a first strength-test for the new build and a trial and a half for the headache that started pounding at Arlo’s skull the moment Pol suggested he might be the next to find his mate. On a whim that he didn’t understand, Arlo had asked Lainie how sales of the new sections on Lighthouse Hill were going. The build they’d just finished was spoken for, but he’d thought—he didn’t know what he’d thought. His head had felt like someone was scraping it out with a rusty spatula, and when Lainie had reassured him that there were still sections available, he’d felt even worse.

  I don’t need a new house, anyway. I have the Hometide, and a room above the workshop. Why do I need anything else?

  And why would that give me a headache, anyway? Or the idea of finding a mate? Hideaway’s my home. Creating a family here, bringing them into the Sweets’ pack, would be the best thing to ever happen.

  His head throbbed.

  No, that can’t be it. It must have been the weather change coming in. It was ludicrous to think that the unease coiling in Arlo’s stomach and pounding at his skull might be because he was worried about finding his mate.

  A spray of salt water burst over the port side of the boat and Arlo jerked, automatically scanning the water for what could have caused the disturbance.

  He couldn’t see anything; even the distant lights from the nearest human town were barely a glow on the horizon, and he was far enough from Hideaway that he couldn’t sense any of his shifter friends or neighbors.

  But, just in case…

  He sent out a cautious telepathic signal. *Hello?*

  There was no reply. Arlo relaxed. Just a stray wave. He was alone out here. Just him and his migraine.

  God knows what I’d do if someone did pop by and
want a chat, he thought glumly. Bite their head off, probably.

  He released the anchor, trying to transform the relief he’d felt at realizing he was still alone into real relaxation. It didn’t work. The headache was like a hammer, beating hot, sharp knocks on the back of his head. Constant. Frustrating. It was like…

  It’s like someone’s trying to get my attention.

  Arlo’s shoulders tensed. He tentatively extended his shifter powers, checking for any telltale echoes of other shifters in the area. Nothing.

  He shook his head and winced as it throbbed.

  Nothing. Nothing certain, at least. Just a hint, a suggestion, of someone at the other end of the constant thudding in his head.

  Arlo growled. This had better not be one of Jools’ pranks… But, no, that wouldn’t be like her. Jools’ jokes were stupid, but they never hurt anyone.

  This was something new. Or someone new.

  Arlo groaned. He’d slipped out of Hideaway before dawn to avoid having to talk to anyone, not to trip over a new arrival and play welcoming committee.

  A lost new arrival, apparently. Hideaway Cove was miles away, and that would explain why they were knocking on his skull like it was a door and they were after directions.

  He’d dropped anchor as he debated with himself, and the boat swung towards the coast with the movement of water. It wasn’t much, a few yards closer to land, but it was enough.

  The psychic attack hit him like a sledgehammer. He sprawled over the deck, gasping.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Ignoring this wasn’t a possibility.