Bronx, p.1
Bronx, page 1
part #3 of The Moonstone Pack Series
BRONX
The Moonstone Pack
Book #3
MARGO BOND COLLINS
Copyright © 2023 by Margo Bond Collins
Published by Rakuten Kobo Inc. as Kobo Originals
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited and proofread by Lyss Em Editing
Cover design Miblart
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All rights reserved. For information about permissions to reproduce this book address Rakuten Kobo, 150 John Street, 5th Floor, Toronto, Ontario, M5V 3E3.
ISBN 9781774538821
Website: www.kobo.com/originals
About Bronx
BRONX BISHOP HAS SPENT his entire life as a guardian of the Moonstone Pack, always protecting everyone around him, often at his own expense. He’s a battle-scarred warrior—not the kind of man a young, beautiful woman would ever choose on her own. So when his alpha, Steele, tells Bronx a mate has been chosen for him from among the females of the Idaho Pack, he doesn’t dare allow himself to believe she could ever fall in love with him.
When Cora Harris’s new alpha tells her he’s arranged for her to become Bronx Bishop’s mate, she’s terrified. She might need to marry Bronx for her own safety, but she knows he could never love her—or the child of the Idaho alpha the Moonstone Pack took down.
But the more Cora gets to know Bronx, the more she realizes he’s precisely the kind of mate she’s always wished for. So when she learns that members of her former pack are planning to betray the treaty, she must decide which side will she betray—her old pack with everyone and everything she’s ever loved, or the Moonstone Pack with the man she thinks she might be able to love from now on?
Content and Trigger Warning
PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS book includes elements of physical, verbal, and emotional abuse by characters other than the hero, as well as mentions of rape and sexual abuse, and may therefore be triggering to some readers.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
MOONLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH THE small window, casting a silver glow across Bronx Bishop’s exhausted features. The white walls of the Moonstone Pack hospital seemed to swallow up the darkness. In his human form, lying in a sterile bed with crisp sheets, he appeared almost vulnerable—though anyone who knew him would have dismissed such notions quickly. He was the head guardian of the Moonstone Pack; strength and authority were etched into every line of his imposing frame.
Still, a low groan escaped Bronx’s lips as pain lanced through his body. His injuries served as a constant reminder that complacency could lead to disaster. Despite the throbbing in his limbs, he felt restless; the pack needed him to be strong and alert, not confined to a hospital bed.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists as another wave of pain coursed through him. Even with his ability to shift and heal, this kind of injury would not be easily overcome. Every muscle in his body tensed and relaxed, fighting the urge to jump out of bed and return to his duties. But for now, he had no choice but to stay put and endure the discomfort.
After all, the Moonstone Pack alpha, Steele Jacobs, had ordered him confined to this hospital room, this bed.
In the silence of the room, Bronx’s thoughts turned to the task at hand: protecting his pack. He envisioned the faces of the wolves he led, their fierce loyalty matched only by their own fearsome abilities. And as he considered how best to address the recent threats from outside forces, he wondered what might have been if fate hadn’t chosen him to take on such an important role. Would he still be the quiet, brooding figure he was now? Or would he have a chance at something more…something different?
Stop it, Bronx, he scolded himself mentally, shaking off the distracting thoughts. No matter what might have been, his duty was clear: ensure the safety and well-being of his pack, no matter the cost to himself. He gritted his teeth and forced his eyes shut, hoping sleep would provide some measure of relief from the pain.
For now, all he could do was wait and hope that his body would heal quickly enough to return to his duties.
But in the stillness of the hospital room, as the moon continued its slow ascent across the night sky, Bronx felt a strange sense of anticipation—an unspoken promise that something was about to change, whether for better or worse.
The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled Bronx’s ears, making it impossible to ignore his own vulnerability. Sweat trickled down his brow and dampened the thin hospital sheets that barely covered his battered body. He inhaled sharply, the pain in his side intensifying with each breath. This was not how he wanted to spend his time: helpless and confined to a sterile room.
The door creaked open, and Greg Weiss, the Moonstone Pack’s doctor, stepped inside. He was a lean man with sharp features and many years of experience tending to injured wolves drawn into the lines on his face. He carried a clipboard, scanning the contents as he approached Bronx.
“Evening, Bronx,” Greg said, giving him a quick smile before examining the sensors attached to his patient. “How’s the pain?”
“Manageable,” Bronx grunted, unwilling to admit just how much it plagued him. In truth, he longed for the freedom his wolf form offered, where the pain would recede and allow him to carry out his guardian duties.
“Good, good,” Greg murmured, scribbling something on his clipboard. He looked up, meeting Bronx’s eyes with a reassuring gaze. “You should be able to shift back into your wolf form in another day or two. That’ll speed up your healing considerably.”
Bronx nodded, relief washing over him at the prospect of returning to his duties sooner than he’d feared. But Greg’s next words ignited new anxiety within him.
“However, you need to take it easy when you shift back,” Greg warned, wagging a finger at him. “No heroics or pushing yourself too hard. Your body needs time to recover fully.”
“Understood,” Bronx said, gritting his teeth against the frustration welling up inside him. His pack needed him, but so did his body. He couldn’t risk his own well-being if it meant endangering those who counted on him. It was a careful balance, one he’d have to maintain until he was completely healed.
“Good,” Greg said with a final nod, making his way to the door. “I’ll be back to check on you later. Get some rest.”
As the door clicked shut behind the doctor, Bronx tried to relax, focusing on the comforting words Greg had given him. The pack was relying on him to recover quickly, and he couldn’t afford to let them down.
But there was another part of him, buried deep within his soul, that yearned for something more than duty and responsibility.
A part he wouldn’t be mooning over now if he weren’t in so much pain.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the quiet room amplifying his heart monitor’s steady beeping. Bronx couldn’t deny the pull of his wolf form and its promise of strength and freedom.
“Here,” Greg said, moving back into the room, carrying a syringe with a clear liquid. “This should help you sleep and allow your body to focus on healing.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Bronx muttered, allowing himself to relax slightly as Greg administered the shot. As the drug began to take effect, his eyelids grew heavier, and the pain that had tormented him started to recede, replaced by numbness.
Bronx could hear footsteps outside, followed by the deep, steady voices of his cousins, Steele and Ryker.
“Is he going to be all right?” Steele asked. Bronx could almost see the furrowed brow of the alpha as he spoke with Dr. Weiss.
“He’ll pull through,” Greg assured them. “He should be able to shift within a day or two, which will help speed up the healing process. But for now, all he needs is rest.”
“Can we see him?” Ryker asked, his fun-loving demeanor momentarily set aside in light of the situation.
“Give it a few days,” Greg said. “Right now, what Bronx needs most is sleep and time to heal. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him.”
The muffled voices faded away as Bronx felt the drowsy fog of the medication pulling him under. He fought against the urge to sleep for a moment longer, his mind racing with thoughts of duty and the pack’s safety.
At some point later, Bronx drifted back into consciousness, the darkness of the clinic pressing down on him like a weighted blanket. The only noise that filled the room was the soft ticking of the clock on the wall, barely audible over the sound of his own heartbeat. His body hummed with a dull, throbbing pain, but it was no longer unbearable—the painkillers Greg had given him coated everything in a white haze, though he could feel the agony lurking just outside his peripheral vision, waiting for its chance to invade again.
How long have I been unconscio us?
As Bronx struggled to open his heavy eyelids, he caught the faint scent of jasmine and vanilla wafting through the air, making him feel as if he was floating in a tranquil oasis. A figure moved gracefully around his bed, her steps light and nearly silent. She was a vision, her long, silky dark hair cascading down past her shoulders as she busied herself with something near his bedside table. The dim glow from the hallway outlined her body, casting a halo around her ethereal form.
“Amazing,” Bronx whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, even though she was little more than a shadow in the darkness. Regardless, there was something about her that inflamed his senses.
The woman paused, seemingly noticing his gaze for the first time. She turned to look at him, her eyes shimmering in the dim light. “You’re awake,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” Bronx admitted gruffly, attempting a weak smile. “But you… You make it better.”
She hesitated for a moment, then moved closer to his bed, her presence soothing some of the lingering pain in his battered body. “I’m glad I can help, even if it’s just a little.”
“Who are you?” Bronx asked, his curiosity piqued by this mysterious figure who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
“Someone who cares about you,” she said, her voice gentle. “Now try to get some more rest. You need it.”
Bronx wanted to ask more questions, to learn everything he could about this beautiful woman. But as he lay there, staring into her captivating eyes, the all-encompassing darkness began to claim him once again, pulling him down into its depths.
“Stay with me?” Bronx murmured, his words quiet as sleep threatened to overtake him.
“Of course,” she whispered.
A thought danced through his mind: if it had taken this horrible pain to bring this incredible woman into his life, he would suffer it gladly.
As sleep claimed him again, the last coherent thought that crossed Bronx’s mind was that perhaps this beautiful woman was an angel sent to guide him through the darkness of his pain. With that comforting notion, he surrendered to the gentle current of unconsciousness, embracing the hope that she would still be there when he awoke.
Bronx stirred, his consciousness slowly returning to him like a boat drifting back to shore.
“Where is she?” he mumbled under his breath as he scanned the room. The memory of her soft touch, her warm presence, and her soothing voice filled his mind, but there was no sign of her now.
“Must’ve been a dream,” he whispered, his heart sinking at the realization. He could almost see her in the shadows, her ethereal beauty haunting the corners of his mind. “No woman could be that perfect.”
As he lay there, Bronx allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, letting the sadness wash over him like a wave breaking against the shore. He had wanted her to be real so badly.
“Damn my weakness,” he muttered, balling his uninjured hand into a fist. He couldn’t afford to let himself get caught up in fantasies.
Who needs angels, anyway? he thought bitterly. They’re just figments of our imagination, created to give us hope when we’re lost.
I don’t need hope—I need strength.
Closing his eyes, Bronx attempted to banish the image of the mysterious woman from his thoughts. But just as he succeeded in locking away the memories behind an iron door, the faintest hint of her scent drifted through the room, teasing him with the possibility that she might have been real after all.
No. I can’t afford to be distracted by dreams or ghosts of my own mind.
Determined to regain control, Bronx forced his attention to the task ahead—healing and returning to his duties.
“Strength,” he repeated aloud, clenching his jaw. “That’s what I need.”
And so, with a renewed sense of purpose, Bronx turned his attention inward, focusing on his body’s natural ability to heal and recover.
He would prove to himself that he didn’t need an angel—real or imagined—to guide him through the darkness.
He was strong enough to do it on his own.
Chapter 1
TWO MONTHS LATER—ALMOST six weeks after he’d been released from the hospital after battling and defeating the nearby Idaho Pack—a storm of anticipation roiled through Bronx’s chest as he stood at the edge of Yellowstone Park, inhaling deeply. The scent of pine needles and damp earth filled his nostrils, awakening a primal urge in him to shift, giving in to his inner wolf’s desire to run wild.
His weeks in the hospital were a blur of hazy memories and what he assumed were drug-induced hallucinations. It took an enormous amount of pain-killing medicine to affect an average wolf shifter—and Bronx was far from average. By the time Greg had given the guardian enough medication to soothe his body’s agony, Bronx’s brain had turned to mush, offering up addled visions of…angels? Or something like that, anyway.
Something that sent his emotions reeling.
As much as he’d hated the pain of his injuries, Bronx had hated feeling out of control even more, insisting that Greg take him off the IV as soon as possible.
Given the guardian’s reluctance to accept more opioids, Greg had encouraged Bronx to shift often in order to allow his body to heal more quickly—but he’d also ordered Bronx to avoid running in either his human or his wolf form. Major injuries like the ones Bronx had suffered, the pack doctor noted, required weeks to heal. Yes, even in shifters.
So as much as Bronx’s instincts might shout at him to hide his injuries from any prying eyes, he pushed himself to move past them as quickly as possible, following Greg’s orders religiously and shoving all the mangled, fuzzy memories of the hospital out of his mind.
His dedication to his rehabilitation exercises paid off. At this morning’s appointment, Greg had told Bronx that the guardian was free to resume all pack duties—including patrolling pack territory in his wolf form.
Now Bronx hesitated for only a moment, then shed his human form, allowing the slight pain of transformation to wash over him like an old friend—not the lingering torment of convalescence and recovery, but the sharp, bright, pinprick sparks that always accompanied shifting and immediately disappeared along with his human body. His bones cracked and reshaped, his muscles rippling under his skin as he dropped to all fours, his muzzle elongating and his bright white fur emerging all over his new shape.
Bronx shook off the last vestiges of his shift and began to run through the dense woodland of Yellowstone Park, paws thudding against the ground in a rhythmic cadence.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of the forest animals—rabbits, otters, deer—prey he often hunted. Bronx’s heightened senses fed him information as he ran, his powerful legs propelling him forward. The pain from his battle wounds throbbed in time with each step, a constant reminder of the perils that had befallen the Moonstone Pack. Jagged lines marred his once-unblemished skin, an outward testament to the battles he’d fought and won, but also to the ones that had left their indelible mark on his soul.
As he ran, he felt the loneliness that dogged him lighten just a little. In this form, he could almost forget about everything else for a while—the responsibilities of being Moonstone Pack’s head guardian, his scars both seen and unseen. Instead, the wind whipped past him as he bounded between trees, a blur of pale fur and focused determination.
Bronx slowed his pace, listening to the rustle of leaves and examining the wildlife that called the park home. A family of deer grazed nearby, their ears flicking nervously at the sound of his approach.
His attention shifted to a squirrel chattering angrily at him from a high branch, its tiny tail twitching in agitation. Bronx smiled inwardly at the display, knowing that even the smallest of creatures held a fierce spirit within them. As he moved on, his ears caught the distant sound of a pack of Yellowstone’s wolves—true wolves, not shifters—howling together, their voices harmonizing in a wild melody that called to him.
For a moment, Bronx considered joining them but quickly dismissed the thought. His duty lay with his own kind. Still, he couldn’t shake the longing that filled him as he listened to the distant howls.
