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  Filthy Wolf

  Junkyard Shifters, Book 2

  Liza Street

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Also by Liza Street

  About Liza

  Filthy Wolf, Junkyard Shifters, Book 2

  by Liza Street

  Cover designed by Keira Blackwood.

  Copyright 2020 Liza Street. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or used fictitiously.

  1

  The small room, stuffed with twenty people and a monster, was unnaturally quiet.

  Jessica narrowed her gaze at the monster in question. Professor Chaole (pronounced kale, which seemed apt to Jessica, who hated kale) was a slender woman with a huge head of blond hair. She wore her hair in a loose bun that flopped this way and that as she moved. Slenderness and blondness weren’t particularly monstrous attributes. No, it was the vitriol and venom that spewed from Chaole’s mouth when she critiqued student manuscripts.

  If it weren’t for Chaole, the room, with cheerful sunlight streaming through the windows, would probably make everyone pleasantly tired. Instead, every single person was on edge, even Chaole’s favorite writing students.

  The current student in the hot seat, Gregory, was holding his notebook in front of him. He’d paused during his reading to take in Chaole’s stern expression. Not reassured in the slightest, he continued his chapter in a shaky voice. “And she was held fast, treasured, in the jaws of the beast.”

  As Gregory lowered his notebook, Chaole sighed. “Derivative. Prosaic. The premise relies on clichés and tropes. Where is the magic in this piece? Where is the literature? It is all so mundane. It makes me want to shoot myself in the fucking head.”

  Two weeks ago, when this intensive writing retreat began, words like those might have caused some of the students to gasp. Now, however, they knew better.

  Gregory nodded and returned to his seat.

  “That concludes our disappointing critique session this afternoon,” Chaole said. “Remember, absolute silence must be adhered to until dinner at six.”

  Jessica sighed inwardly, picked up her notebook, and started for the door. The rules here were intense. No phones. No talking except at lunch and dinner. No computers. All writing would be done by hand.

  Two or three of the hopeful authors seemed to be thriving with these restrictions in place. If Jessica had to hear one more time about Leah’s “award-winning draft,” Jessica just might throw up.

  Jessica didn’t belong here. Unfortunately, her parents had sent her here as a last-ditch effort to develop her writing skills.

  She was a college graduate, dammit. She should have the nerve to tell her parents she didn’t want to follow in their footsteps.

  And yet here she was, stuck in the middle of nowhere in an intensive writing program run by Machiavelli’s long-lost sister.

  “Blythe,” Chaole said. “A word, please.”

  Jessica purposefully dropped her pen and bent behind a row of folding metal chairs to pick it up. Blythe, a stunning redhead, was one of the few students who had tried befriending Jessica without knowing who Jessica’s parents were. It had instantly endeared Jessica to her, and they usually sat together at lunch and dinner.

  However, Chaole seemed to have it out for Blythe. Jessica was determined to figure out why.

  “Hello, Professor Chaole,” Blythe said quietly.

  “The pages you turned in last night are absolute crap, do you know that?” Chaole asked.

  Blythe’s voice was soft, yet there was a thread of confidence in it. “I believed they were a decent start for my first chapter.”

  “I threw them in the recycling. Start over.”

  “But Professor Chaole—”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence with such dross, Blythe. I don’t know how you got into this program, but if you don’t improve, you’ll be going home early.”

  “I understand.”

  Jessica hated the way Blythe’s voice wavered.

  A chapter. Chaole had thrown away a student’s writing? And when they were writing out their chapters on paper, that meant it wasn’t backed up on a computer somewhere.

  That was just wrong.

  Blythe hurried out of the building, her curly, orange-red hair swishing behind her. Jessica scampered after her along the worn dirt path through the trees. Probably alerted by Jessica’s footsteps, Blythe turned. She smiled weakly at Jessica.

  “That’s messed up,” Jessica whispered as quietly as possible.

  Blythe shrugged. “It’s what we’re here for, I guess.”

  “Do you want me to help you fish them out of the recycling bin? We can go tonight after lights out.”

  “Sweet of you to offer,” Blythe whispered, her smile growing bigger, “but I started copying my chapters down in another notebook on day two, after Chaole tore Amanda’s in half.”

  She pointed to the messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

  “That’s smart,” Jessica said, giving Blythe a high-five.

  Jessica was about to turn away when she noticed Blythe’s eyes shining with unshed tears. They passed two student cabins and reached Blythe’s.

  “I don’t understand why she’s so mean to you,” Jessica said.

  “Probably because I’m a charity case. I mean, scholarship student.” Blythe shrugged.

  Immediately feeling guilty for her own wealth, Jessica looked down. She didn’t even want to be here, whereas students in Blythe’s situation had to apply for special grants and scholarships just to attend.

  On the ground was a little flowering plant, nestled among the dry, rocky soil. It was a Plumas rayless daisy. Jessica had seen one the other day and looked it up in one of the guides in the dining hall.

  She was about to point the flowers out to Blythe when Blythe said, “I wish I didn’t have to go in there and face my terrible chapter.”

  “You don’t,” Jessica said, pulling her attention away from the daisies.

  Blythe raised her eyebrows.

  “Seriously,” Jessica said. “Come to my cabin instead. It’s not like Chaole comes to check on us or anything. As long as we’re quiet, no one will know we’re breaking rules.”

  From the cabin adjacent to Blythe’s came a scraping noise. Jessica looked over in time to see one of the windows sliding open. Leah poked her head out and made an exaggerated shh motion with her finger to her lips. Jessica was tempted to make a one-finger gesture of her own. Instead, she stared hard at Leah until Leah pulled her head back into her cabin and closed the window.

  “So?” Jessica said, raising her eyebrows.

  “I don’t know,” Blythe said.

  “I have tequila,” Jessica said.

  Blythe’s face broke in silent laughter. “Lead the way.”

  They hurried to Jessica’s cabin, which was luckily at the end of the row. Amanda wrote with music, wearing headphones, s
o Jessica knew they wouldn’t disturb her even if they got giggly. Jessica was so ready to let loose. It felt irresponsible, sure, but after two weeks of being treated like a rebellious teenager, maybe it was time to act like one.

  After two shots each, they were comparing notes on the first stories they’d written. Each of them had been preteens when they started. Jessica, at the urging of her parents. Blythe, at the urging of a supportive teacher.

  “It was loosely based fanfic,” Blythe said. “I should’ve known then that I’d never cut it as a writer.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” Jessica shook her head and gave Blythe the sternest look she could manage. “I heard you read during the workshops. Your writing is so good. Don’t ever let a stuffy old monster like Chaole make you think otherwise.”

  Blythe smiled. “She is kind of stuffy, isn’t she?”

  “You did see her face when Harold started reading that bedroom scene he wrote, right?”

  They cackled. The scene had been truly awful, going on and on about the female character’s pert breasts with their perfect little nipple buttons.

  “Buttons,” Blythe laughed, “like you just push them and bam, she’s turned on.”

  Jessica was laughing so hard she was gasping. She poured them each a third shot. They clinked their glasses together, then drank up.

  “So, like…” Blythe hesitated, fiddling with a lock of her red hair.

  Jessica was pretty sure Blythe was going to ask about her parents. But she didn’t mind—she wasn’t getting any of the fangirl vibes from Blythe like she often got from so-called “friends” who wanted to hang out with her because her parents were famous. It was even worse with writer friends. They seemed to want to hang out with Jessica because she could get them an audience or connection to her parents.

  “Go on,” Jessica said.

  “I don’t want to be a dick and ask what it was like growing up with Carlos and Donna Valdez,” Blythe said, “but…I’m dying to know because you’re so chill and nice. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want, though. I’m sure you’re tired of being asked.”

  “It’s okay,” Jessica said. She was just relieved Blythe hadn’t asked for their email addresses or for Jessica to pass Blythe’s manuscript along to them to read. That was a disappointment she’d experienced dozens of times. “They’re great parents. Truly. I’m very lucky.”

  “It does seem that way,” Blythe said. The darkness in her slate-green eyes hinted at a much different childhood.

  “Yeah. If I can have one complaint, though, it’s that they want me to be an author like them. They say it’s ‘in my blood.’”

  Blythe leaned forward. “What do you think?”

  “I think if it’s in my blood, it’s skipping a generation. If I have a kid someday, maybe the author gene will manifest in them.”

  “I think your writing is good,” Blythe said.

  Jessica looked at her. Blythe wasn’t the type to use the word good if she could say something else.

  “But I don’t have the spark,” Jessica said.

  Blythe nodded, then winced. “I’m sorry. It’s not—crap. I shouldn’t have nodded. I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh my gosh, don’t be,” Jessica said, gratitude blooming in her chest. “It’s the first honest thing anyone has told me about my writing. Everyone else just wants to be my friend because, well, my parents. So they’re fake.”

  “I promise, I’m not being fake,” Blythe said. “I’m just glad you’re not pissed at me and kicking me out of your cabin.”

  “You didn’t insult me. You validated what I’ve been feeling all this time. I’m grateful.” Impulsively, Jessica leaned forward and hugged Blythe. Pulling away again, she said, “Now take out that so-called crap chapter and impress my socks off.”

  As she listened to Blythe read from her extra notebook, she couldn’t believe how miserable she’d been two hours ago, listening to Chaole berate all the students during the workshop. And now she was in here with a friend, and listening to the sparkling prose of a scene that was seriously publication-ready.

  And, maybe for the first time, she had a friend.

  “Come on,” Blythe said, “let’s get some writing done.”

  “You’ll hang out here and write with me?” Jessica asked, feeling hopeful.

  Blythe nodded. “Yes. But no more drinking. We both have work to do.”

  2

  Marcus caught Lena’s scent in the air. She smelled like mint and copper or something metallic. He’d always liked the combination—a sharp and feminine aroma that got his heart beating faster. At least, it had done so until he learned she didn’t have the same feelings. Now it just caused an ache.

  Quickening his pace, he pushed those thoughts away. Despite any ache or remaining yearning, he still looked forward to seeing her on the other side of the boundary. She’d have a message from his half-sister, Marianne, and he was eager for news. And then he’d be able to talk to Lena for a little while, which was just as good as hearing from Marianne.

  Which made him feel like the biggest asshole. Lena had a mate. A mate she was wildly in love with. Marcus, unfortunately, had been friend-zoned from the very beginning.

  He followed her scent to the pond at the northwest boundary of the Junkyard. She stood just on the other side of the gravel line.

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone.

  Another woman stood at her side. She had wild blond curls and wore bright pink lipstick. Marcus gave an experimental sniff. He detected the dusty scent of a big cat—that was Lena. He could also detect the mossy scent of a wolf shifter—so the other woman was a wolf like him.

  The woman smiled at him, but when he tried to smile back, his mouth barely moved.

  Lena frowned and gave him a subtle shake of her head, a wordless admonition to be nice.

  Why had she brought someone else?

  “Lena,” he said. “Good to see you.”

  “You, too.” She grinned. “This is Cassie. I was talking about you yesterday, and she wanted to meet you.”

  “Hi,” Marcus said to Cassie. He held up his left hand, as he no longer had a right one. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but as you probably know, I’m stuck here.”

  “But I could put my hand over the line to shake yours,” Cassie said.

  “Yeah, but why would you do that?” Marcus asked.

  “Maybe you’d yank me over the line, and I’d be stuck with you,” she said, looking as if the idea wasn’t at all unappealing.

  Marcus gaped at her.

  Lena gave her a strange look.

  “Do you have a message from Marianne?” Marcus asked Lena.

  “Yep.” Lena pulled a piece of paper from her back pocket and handed it to Marcus. “You should let her come and visit you. She really wants to.”

  That was out of the question. Marianne would not be allowed to set foot anywhere near the Junkyard. Marcus shook his head. “You know how I feel about that, Lena.”

  “It’s been almost two months. She misses you.”

  “She’s human. It would be a disaster.”

  “I agree,” Cassie said, even though no one had asked her. “What you boys need in there are some real shifter women.”

  Marcus didn’t know what to say to that. Lena had been in here, not long ago, and it had caused a whole lot of trouble. It hadn’t been Lena’s fault, but still, the tragedy had been complete. Their friend Kyle died. Marcus lost his right hand. Lena and her mate, Carter, had barely made it out alive.

  “Lena,” Cassie said, a smile pasted on her face, “do you think I could talk to Marcus for a few minutes?”

  “Sure,” Lena said, although she looked less than enthusiastic, probably realizing, as Marcus did, that Cassie was not quite as well-adjusted as Lena might have originally thought. “I wanted to talk to Caitlyn, anyway.”

  She took off toward Caitlyn and Grant’s cabin, sending an apologetic look over her shoulder to Marcus.

  Yeah, she should be sorry. Fi
rst she went and fell in love with Carter, and now she was bringing random women along with her when she came to visit Marcus.

  Oh, shit. He suddenly realized what this was supposed to be.

  Lena was matchmaking.

  He would’ve laughed if it wasn’t so fucking depressing.

  “So, tell me something about yourself, Marcus,” Cassie said.

  “Well. I’m a murderer,” Marcus said.

  Cassie nodded. “I figured you must’ve done something bad to get thrown in there.”

  “Yep. Cold-blooded killer, that’s me.”

  “I don’t mind,” Cassie said. “How many guys are in the Junkyard, anyway? I have friends. The girls and I talk about this place a lot.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. We call ourselves the Junkyard Groupies.”

  Marcus could only stare at her.

  She went on, “When we found out Lena had gone in there to find herself a mate, it got us talking.”

  Ho-ly shit. This was not right. Lena hadn’t come in here to find a mate, and it was surely the worst possible reason for getting stuck in the Junkyard. Marcus was careful not to use the word “crazy” in situations that didn’t call for it, but this woman was…well, she was crazy if she thought getting tossed in the Junkyard would land her a mate.

  “Lena!” Marcus shouted. He needed to get this woman out of here. “Lena!”

  Cassie took another step toward the gravel line. “I could come in there right now and find my fated mate. A bad boy who will rock my world like Carter rocks Lena’s.”

  “That is not how this works,” Marcus said. Cassie was way too close to the gravel line. “Lena! Get your ass back here now!”