Never Prey

Never Prey Bad Wolves Book 1 Harper A Brooks Brea Viragh Contents A Note to Readers 1. Ren 2. Ren 3. Ren 4. Torin 5. Ren 6. Torin 7. Noble 8. Ren 9. Ren 10. Dax 11. Ren 12. Ren 13. Mathis 14. Ren 15. Torin 16. Torin 17. Ren 18. Ren 19. Torin 20. Ren 21. Mathis 22. Noble 23. Ren 24. Noble 25. Mathis 26. Ren Harper A. Brooks Brea Viragh Also by Harper A Brooks Also by Brea Viragh Spelling Disaster Faerie Marked Never Prey © Copyright 2023 Harper A. Brooks and Brea Viragh Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. Cover Artist: Manuela Serra Book Cover Designer Editor: Read Head Editing Proofreader: Krista Cook Never Prey Little Red Riding Hood had a big, bad wolf… I have four. I didn’t even know werewolves existed. Or that the story my parents used to tell me about a mythical Moon Goddess was real. But it’s true—all of it—and that means, the part about her gifting me with only twenty-five years of life is too. With my final birthday looming, I'm on a mission to save myself, but that mission ends up throwing me in the middle of two warring werewolf packs. Now, the rival alphas and their two betas have me in their sights. Torin, Noble, Mathis, and Dax are sexier than sin, but they're hunters, killers, some of the most powerful men in the shifter and human world… And they want a taste of me. They’re in for a surprise: I might not be a wolf like them, but I’m never prey. A Note to Readers This book contains triggering topics such as: Dubious consent Mentions of infant loss/stillborn Primal play/ cat & mouse Knotting To a certain Sandwich, for supplying us with jokes for DAYS. We are never lacking in material. And to our Real Life Anna—the woman who actually has Cocoa Puffs in the seats of her van. We love you! And all the trauma in your ass. Chapter 1 Ren It always rains when my car breaks down. One of those unspoken laws of the universe, I guess. I hoof it through the pouring rain, dark hair frizzing around my head with the humidity. It’s just like how it always seems to break down when I’m late for work. Some kind of issue with the starter I’ve never managed to get fixed. I slam to a stop underneath the overhang and tug open the back door to Rudy’s Bar. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do or how many plans I put into place for the day—the rain comes, the car breaks, and I’m out every bit of cash I’ve managed to put into savings. Go figure. The moment the doors open, the stench of old fry oil hits me like a ton of bricks. “You’re late, Ren.” Rudy himself glares over his shoulder at me. His eyes are shadowy beneath a layer of sweat the red checkered bandanna across his forehead can’t absorb fast enough. “I have no fucking clue how someone who lives above the place she works can be late but somehow you manage it.” “I like to think it’s endearing,” I reply. “Let me assure you, it’s fucking not.” I wave him off, shrugging out of my now soaked crimson-colored hoodie and hanging it on the grease-slicked peg beside the door. “I had to run errands and the car broke down..” “I don’t want to hear excuses, either,” Rudy says as he flips a burger patty in the air. It lands back on the flattop with a wet plop. I shudder. All my clothes smell like the place. It’s a kind of odor you can’t escape. Call it an occupational hazard. “Above. The. Place. You. Work,” he repeats. “And you never let me forget it, either.” Landlord, boss, double whammy and Rudy holds it above my head whenever shit happens. I twist my long hair into a bun at the back of my head, unable to do anything with the baby-fine wisps around my face, and stare Rudy down until he returns his attention to the grill, whistling to the Bruce Springsteen song on the radio. “Get to work,” he sing-songs along with the music. Not even a second to decompress before diving into the fray, and judging from the noise coming from the bar area, the place is hopping. At four o’clock in the afternoon. Broken down car, wet soggy underpants—and not from anything good—and a full house when it isn’t even dark outside…things are combining to make this a Friday I won’t forget. Also, not in a good way. I twist the worn metal band around my left ring finger. Habit. Helps me keep the scum from hitting on me 24/7. There is rarely anything good about having to work in a bar. A grunge bar, I correct mentally, where the patrons complain constantly about the watery beer and the greasy food and heaven forbid Rudy raises the cost of liquor. We’d have a riot on our hands. My feet already hurt from the trek here. It’s going to be a long damn shift and I’ve learned better than to complain. It helps no one. At least the money is good. Money helps. Money