Tonight Sierra was spoiling for a fight.
She slammed into the Beaver Tavern’s door shoulder first, amber light spilling on her and the scent of tobacco threading through the air as she entered. Wooden planks creaked under her boots from her tread as she quick-stepped to the oaken bar on the opposite side. Three things lit her match without fail—abusive assholes, idiots who didn’t use their turn signals, and unannounced shifters moving in on her territory.
Inside, her beast snapped at its confines, begging her to shift, to take to the woods and keep running, never turning back. Except leaving wasn’t an option, not since she’d become alpha of the Red Rock pack years back. Sounds of the bar in full swing washed over her, from the shouts and laughs to the clunks of heavy pint glasses hitting the tables.
“Sierra, what’s up your ass?” Jeremiah called over from a table as a lazy smile reached his hazel eyes. Her Red Rock pack filled the whole bar, since humans kept their distance from predominantly shifter areas, and in this part of Pennsylvania few would come strolling in.
She flipped him the middle finger. “Shut it, Streaky,” she called back, garnering a couple of smirks and laughs from the pack. After Jer had gotten caught buck-ass naked, stumbling out of at least three different tents at the last Fourth of July party, the nickname had stuck. Sierra made a beeline to where Raven manned the taps, dispensing dew to this loud and crazy lot. Sierra’s body brimmed with unspent tension. Fight, fight, fight pounded through her, an untamable urge, and her wolf prowled inside her, restless. As alpha, her rank heightened her tether to the beast, already one step away from primal.
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