Twenty four year old, Asher 'Ash' Hunter has a reputation as an Alpha who never loses. But by deciding to choose his mate for him, his father has just challenged him to the biggest game of his life.
Plagued by rogue attacks, secret plots, and the s...
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Present day...
Barren of life, the clearing nestled under a thick mantle of winter. The first snows had covered every inch of the forest with a carpet of white. Caught up by the wind and thrust violently between the trees, much of it had turned a dingy grey.
Tinged with salt, the full fury of winter whipped in from the sea, engaging the thin, bare branches in a frantic dance. The long, constantly shifting shadows rolled across the forest floor, like grey waves on a stormy sea.
Drifts gathered against trees and hollow logs alike, creating large, icy barricades that hid the game trails and camouflaged any recognisable landmarks.
"Get a bloody move on! We haven't got all day!"
The two men stomping through the undergrowth paid the bitter wind no mind. The older of the pair led the way; dressed head to toe in black, - barely a silhouette in the poor light. Keeping to the trails where the snow lay thinnest, and skirting around the low-slung branches and tangled vegetation; he was careful to avoid leaving too much evidence of his passage behind him, his eyes constantly on the move.
He needn't have bothered. His companion - a tall gangly youth whose red rimmed eyes and runny nose gave the impression he was constantly on the verge of tears - trudged miserably behind him, his leather jacket suggesting he would have been more at home in the back alleys of a big city than deep in the wilderness. He stood out against the white backdrop like a sore thumb. Clinging to one end of a large body bag; a cacophony of cracks, thuds and crunches followed his every step.
Every time another branch gave way with a violent snap, the leader's jaw clenched; his white knuckles suggesting that only a superb level of self-control was helping him resist the urge to turn around and sock his companion in the jaw.
All around them, the usually feather-soft ferns stuck out in all directions, ramrod straight, and coated with ice - brittle shards that snapped with the slightest touch. Like glass they shattered as the intruders brushed by.
Reaching the very edge of the clearing the leader gave the signal to halt, and they dropped the bag near a patch of brambles with a soft thud.
The younger of the two eyed the tapestry of thorns with as much suspicion as a child would regard a needle in a doctors office. "I don't like it."
"So you keep saying," the leader muttered. "Now grow a pair and help me."
The youth unzipped the bag and took a glance inside. He blanched. "I think I'm gonna be sick."
"You leave your stomach contents all over this clearing and I'll leave my fist all over your face," the ruffian warned. "No evidence, remember?"
