Shifter rage a rejected.., p.1
Shifter Rage: A Rejected Mate Shifter Romance (Wolf Desire Book 1), page 1
Shifter Rage
WOLF DESIRE
BOOK 1
HANA LISETTE
Copyright © 2023 by Hana Lisette
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Killer Covers by Hanna
Created with Vellum
Contents
Foreword
1. Celeste
2. Celeste
3. Celeste
4. Luke
5. Luke
6. Celeste
7. Celeste
8. Luke
9. Celeste
10. Celeste
11. Celeste
12. Johan
13. Celeste
14. Johan
15. Johan
16. Luke
17. Luke
18. Celeste
19. Luke
20. Celeste
21. Celeste
22. Celeste
23. Celeste
24. Celeste
25. Celeste
26. Johan
27. Celeste
28. Johan
29. Celeste
30. Celeste
31. Luke
32. Celeste
33. Celeste
34. Celeste
35. Celeste
36. Luke
37. Celeste
38. Celeste
39. Celeste
40. Celeste
41. Celeste
42. Luke
43. Celeste
44. Tom
45. Celeste
46. Celeste
47. Luke
48. Luke
Pupper Magic
About Hana
Foreword
The Wolf Desire trilogy features strong language, graphic violence, and explicit sexual content.
Potential triggers are as follows:
Early in the series, there will be on-screen depictions of panic attacks related to social anxiety and trauma.
Furthermore, since the trilogy will feature shifter warfare, please expect death and destruction—often through daggers, explosives, and fires.
Another weapon is a fantasy drug known as “glitzwild”, which many central characters will wield to further their own ends. This drug is not addictive, but it is deadly.
Finally, please expect themes of moral ambiguity. Our protagonists have good intentions, but their actions may be unjust.
Please turn back now if you find the above content triggering. If not, happy reading!
CHAPTER ONE
Celeste
Standing above the towering casino, I watch the glittering skyline illuminate the stars.
I’m clad in black, my face shrouded by a dark cloth mask and my sweater hood. Even the messenger bag dangling at my hip is a crisp midnight black, and I’d blend in with the night except there’s no darkness in the Vegas Strip, only the glimmer-glitz shine of the casino lights.
There’s a certain peace in the syncopation of shouts, honks, and drunken cheers. I revel in it, and as I spread my arms against the cold wind rushing past my body, I watch the ant-speck world like a giant looking down a hill and feel like a queen.
“Ready,” I whisper, and my discreet ear piece buzzes with an approving male hum.
Glass shatters in the distance, again-again-again, audible only to my shifter senses—
Klaxon sirens pierce through the rhythmic city ambiance.
The commotion spreads until the Strip itself is rioting with it, the ground shaking from the incessant siren screeches. Two heartbeats and the building I’m on begins to roar, its ground-floor windows cracked by an onslaught of bullets.
The noise scrapes my shifter-sensitive eardrums, harsh and grating, and my wolf shudders inside me.
I score my lip in irritation.
“Subtlety is lost on you,” I say, unsheathing two witch-enchanted daggers from a messenger bag compartment. Witches are conceited as hell, demanding ludicrous prices for their services, but they’re almost competent enough to justify it.
“For the last time,” my ear piece growls, and I struggle to focus through the sirens. “Seven damned missions hang in tonight’s balance. Be grateful you can rely on the commotion for yours.”
“Eh.” I snort, delighting in my handler’s exasperation. “I like being challenged.”
His only response is an indulgent scoff.
Biting the handle of a dagger to free one hand, I swing down from the roof, free hand clutching the rooftop edge while the other slams the second blade into the tower’s cliff-face. The enchanted blade slices through steel with minimal resistance.
Cold wind whips at my fists and shoves my body left-right in a precarious dangle. My heavy, gem-laden necklace shifts with my weight, distracting me—but I just narrow my eyes and tighten my grip.
In a whipcrack sweep, I seize the dagger from my mouth and ram it into steel before my body can swing down fully. Mouth finally free, I intake a sharp breath. Muscles tense.
Shaking with adrenaline, I lower myself down the tower, my hands taking turns to tug the dagger out and slam it back in when gravity sways me down.
Pull, swing, shove. Pull, swing, shove.
Minutes pass until I spy my entrance in my peripheral vision—a window draped by a black velvet curtain. An abandoned office.
I adjust my path left as I descend until my blades are planted right above the window.
Now to enter.
Upper-floor windows are bulletproof. Unbreakable. The Casino splurged more heavily on their protection.
But I’ve got better than bullets.
Squeezing one dagger tighter, I release the other to grab a puffy gold sticker from my messenger bag.
A witch-enchanted explosive.
Biting its protective sheet with teeth, I detach the sticker and attach it to the window.
I once scoffed at any shifter who relied on witch magic, but that was before my soulmate rejected me and exiled me from his pack.
Five years without the pack’s expectations being rammed down my throat has been… illuminating.
Witch magic is convenient. Efficient. Without it, I’d need quadruple the effort and time to achieve the same results.
Sliding out the free dagger, I seesaw my feet until I’m swinging heavily like a pendulum.
Using the momentum, I snatch out the dagger still lodged in steel before propelling myself sideways. I barely manage to nick the sticker with a blade before I’m thrown to the wind.
Breath catches; heart hammers; I rake both daggers back into steel, and they skid down, forcing jagged gashes in the building face that mirror lightning bolts—
The sticker detonates; the window shatters, and burning glass shards plummet like glittering hail—
Sirens blare from the suite, but that’s not anything new.
Vegas is still screaming with sirens, every inch of this block shuddering from incessant noise.
Heartbeat later, the explosive flames vanish like they never existed, leaving behind only the destruction they ravaged. Bless those money-hungry witches.
Finally, finally, my blades slow their descent, then halt, leaving me a solid two floors below where I started. As my heart leaps to my fucking throat, I laugh, because fuck—
I thrive in this exhilaration, this buzz of adrenaline.
Thanks to all my shifter traits—enhanced healing, speed, power, and senses—I can survive a lot of things, but not an explosion. Shifter healing involves the dramatic acceleration of normal human recovery… but we can’t heal if there’s nothing left to heal.
“Celeste.” My ear-piece buzzes with my handler’s voice. “Stop preening.”
“I’m not preening, Johannes.” I use his full first name to irritate him, but his response sounds amused.
“I can hear how hard you’re breathing through the blaring sirens.”
“This mission is a bit of a work out—”
“You wheeze when you’re out of breath,” he cuts in. “Right now, you’re panting.”
White-hot heat explodes across my cheeks.
I do not pant when I’m excited!
Except for when I do, but that’s a canine thing, meaning it’s not my fault. Wolves are canids, right?
We’re far superior, my wolf grumbles. Puppies may be small and cute and adorable and precious and cuddle-worthy, but wolves are—
I tune her out.
Anyway, Johan can only hear me over the sirens because our ear-pieces filter out background noise, no matter how loud. I’d say they’re also enchanted (what in my life isn’t at this point) but I think it’s just the magic of modern technology.
That’s not a good rebuttal, though. Raising myself back up with my blades, I quickly consider a response.
“Since when is breathing problematic?” I quip. “If you want me to asphyxiate to death, you’ll have to choke me yourself.”
Johan fails to suppress his laughter, eliciting my grin.
“You’re terrible,” he manages, a heartbeat too late for me to believe him. “Just—hurry up, will you? There’s eight minutes, maybe ten, before a crowd gathers to investigate the shattered window.”
&nbs p; Right.
The commotion in this city has bought me some time—there are way too many broken windows in every single building for anyone to rush to a particular one—but I don’t have all day.
“Don’t miss me while I’m gone,” I tease, then cackle when he answers with a theatrically drawn-out groan.
Pull, swing, shove. Pull, swing, shove.
Within seconds, I reach the shattered window—or the hole that’s left of it, delineated by scorched steel and the threadbare outline of jagged glass shards.
Sweeping through the gaping entrance, I sniff the air for a trace of my target, then instantly grin. His wolfish scent dominates the air, and not only because it’s acrid, pungent, and laced by the faintest herbal whiff from his prolonged contact with witch-enhanced drugs. He was nearby minutes ago, and he might even be the only person on this floor.
“Why do my plans always work out so flawlessly?”
“Shut up and find him,” Johan replies.
“You’re no fun during missions,” I mutter, but I’m darting out the storeroom and creeping through the hallways before he can yell my name.
Reaching into my bag, I sheathe one dagger and toss it into its proper compartment, but I leave the other clasped tightly in my hand.
The upper floors of the tower are all business, contrasting the glitzy, prismatic shine of the casino proper. Off-white walls tower over an oakwood floor and drab gray-blue furniture that could belong anywhere.
Sniffing the air, I trail my target’s scent, hardly bothering to hide myself. The obsidian cabochon attached to my necklace will interfere with the security cameras, and my baggy outfit will hide my identity from anyone I come across.
The wide hallways criss-cross like a grid, each leading to hundreds of offices and meeting rooms. Not the easiest place to hide, but I don’t need to.
Minutes pass. I stop before a steel double-door. Behind it, the smell of my target is overpowering, almost rancid, but it fails to cover the tell-tale scent of gunpowder and metal—silver and steel.
Absentmindedly, I fidget with my necklace. Twelve teardrop shaped aquamarines dangle from the delicate white-gold chain, clashing against the obsidian.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Shifter speed, I twist behind the wall, tug the metal door while staying firmly hidden behind it—
Bang-bang-bang—
Three silver bullets pummel into the opposing wall, lightning-quick, exactly where my chest, hand, throat were a fifth of a second ago.
Motherfucker.
Sharp laughter skates out my throat.
The target is silent; there is no rustling of clothes, no thudding of footsteps. He knows he can stay there as long as he wants—likely until his reinforcements arrive. I have to hurry and approach him, and he’s prepared to shoot the moment I show myself.
How naive.
I open my messenger bag and snatch out another large, gold sticker. Without bothering to detach it from the its sheet, I crumple it up, scratch the sticker with my nail, and toss it into the room.
Bullets strike right as I tug back my hand—
The target tears into his wolf form and explodes out of the room, his gun clasped in his maw; the metal doors crash down beneath him—
The sticker detonates with an ear-shattering roar, razing everything nearby—
Before he can reorient himself, I slam into his lycan form, using the momentum to dig my blade into his gut. It’s not silver, so he’ll heal quickly; I don’t want him dead.
As the wound spits blood, he trembles around it—another opening. I rake the dagger up to his chest; his claws snap towards me. I easily duck, digging the blade back down with me.
He chokes out blood. Reaches again, with claws and fangs, as he collapses to the floor, a writhing, bloody mess; spasming, he spurts more blood and raises his paws in surrender.
Like I’d trust the gesture.
For insurance, I hop up to straddle him and rest my dagger against his throat, my other hand balancing against the oakwood floor.
In the next room, the detonation stops abruptly; the crackling flames wither before reaching us. Only a second, maybe two, must have passed since I tossed the bomb.
“Well?” I gasp, and realize I’m panting.
From exertion, not excitement, but Johan’s taunts still echo in my mind.
The wolf eyes me suspiciously. Sluggishly, his wounds begin to heal; when he shifts back, his expression radiates disgust. Fucking hell. He’s an awkwardly-balding man whose teeth have never done him favors, so the fact that he’s repulsed with me is a touch—
I mean, couldn’t he at least fear me? I did just almost maim and murder him.
“I know about my reputation,” he says, “but I have a great-great-grandchild your age. You’re a bit… young, you know, to arouse me—”
“I’m twenty-three!” I cry, then almost lose my balance trying to slap my face. My first instincts may always stem from my pride, but fuck—sometimes, those instincts are stupid.
The man’s face twists with pity, like he’s pitying my—I don’t know, intelligence? Sanity?
Johan’s laughter buzzes in my ear.
“If you want to fuck your 400-year old target, that’s fine by me, but could you turn off your earpiece first? I’d hate to intrude on your privacy—”
“You motherf—”
My fist tightens around my dagger, and it’s a miracle that I stop myself from accidentally slicing my target’s head off. While snatching my hand back, I nick his collarbone, eliciting a gurgle—but who cares about one little cut as long as he remains alive?
Johan’s snort is both grating and gratifying.
Ignoring it, I resume focusing on my target, whose lips and chin are stained with frothy blood. His glare displays mock betrayal laced with genuine irritation—and curiosity.
“You weren’t talking to me just now… which means you’re not acting alone.” Turning his head sideways, he spits blood. “Society, are you?”
Adjusting my balance, I lift my hand and slam down his arm.
“You won’t say a word until my say-so.”
I slide the flat of the dagger against his throat. My target isn’t stupid; he understands the threat, and nods away from the blade.
Trusting the obsidian to both hide me and silence my voice in the surveillance tapes, I continue speaking freely.
“The Society has video evidence of the Blood Flower Motorcycle Club distributing glitzwild to various witches—”
“Your evidence must’ve been magically tampered with,” interrupts my target, the motorcycle club’s president. The owner of this casino. His brows furrow and he fights to maintain a calm facade. “Fake.”
“Do you really think the videos weren’t tested by witches for magical tampering?”
His Adam’s apple bobs hard. “We didn’t have a choice! We work for a group of witches, and they ordered us to—”
I nudge his throat with the blade again.
“Shit excuse,” I say. “And what did I say about speaking?”
My target gnashes his teeth.
“The Society doesn’t take glitzwild distribution lightly,” I say. “It’s one of the few crimes that can lead to a public execution, rather than a trial followed by quiet imprisonment.”
For good reason.
Glitzwild is a witch-devised stimulant that gnaws at the taker’s sanity and reason, rendering them stupid to the point of malleability. In exchange, it allows them to enhance their super-strength and super-healing past natural limits… often until the body fails, killing them.
Glitzwild’s existence is a secret, but the target can be accused of distributing a different forbidden drug.
