Wolf Bitten by Ella Drake

Chapter One
    A mile behind Brock Wolfrik, smudge pots spewed rank smoke into the air while he ran from the last three of his thirty-six years. Dog kennels weren't good enough for dogs, much less a man who needed to stand tall without his fur on occasion. The three werewolves loping beside him would agree. Over their panting, he heard shots echoing behind them. All four picked up the pace while their hearts raced, thundering in his ears.
    Their paws scrambled over a rocky ledge as they snuffled and sneezed to rid themselves of the pollution.
    He wasn't entirely sure, but he judged their position to be in the foothills of the Appalachians, probably North Georgia. His PACk—Petrol Abolished Community—couldn't be far.
    The Alphas of his PACk would be appalled to learn of Wolfsbane's dog-fighting ring. He didn't have time to inform them now, though. He had to find Allie. First, he had to get out of here.
    The little white female who'd escaped with him fell back a bit. Weeks of living with petrol fumes coating her lungs had taken its toll. He didn't know her name. Males had been kept apart from the females, but he wouldn't have noticed anyway. He didn't know any of their names. Fighting for his life every time he'd been forced from his cage didn't allow time to get to know the other captives.
    He flicked his head back to the other two males. The smaller lupine, his fur black with silver highlights, chuffed. Nose bobbing to the ground and up, he waved Brock forward. Brock didn't need any other incentive. The one good thing about living with gas fires surrounding him for years, he'd developed a resistance to the corrosive allergy. He leapt into a dead run, leaving the trailing wolves behind. He didn't look back.
    All he cared about now was finding his mate and taking her home.
    * * * *
    Allie Greene rubbed at the grease caked on her cheek and gave an oil change receipt to her customer. The woman smiled and pulled down her sunglasses, frowning at the motorcycle with a rumbling muffler blaring into the garage entrance.
    Crossing the pavement, the shiny chrome and red hog pulled up to a pump. The woman and her minivan pulled out amid the waves of heat rising above the asphalt. Allie tugged the blue uniform canvas shirt down to cover her midriff and rubbed her hands on her khakis before she could catch herself from soiling them.
    "Damn. I'll never get these clean,” she huffed and moved toward the gas pumps.
    "Don't matter none, Allie,” replied the station owner, her boss and friend, Alfonso, who stepped up beside her and stroked his beard.
    She stopped herself from replying that he was right, it didn't matter because the smell from her clothes effectively camouflaged her. He'd wonder if she'd cracked if she said something like that.
    The sun reflected off the cycle and blurred the writing on the rider's leather jacket.
    "I've got this one,” Fonso said. He hooked his thumbs behind his overall straps and strolled to the customer, his red neck gleaming between his baseball cap-covered dark hair and his white T-shirt.
    He grinned ear to ear before he drawled, “Hey brother. What can I do you for?"
    Brother? There was no resemblance between the two. The tall and muscular customer towered over her friend.
    "Just fill'er up.” He shrugged out of his jacket to reveal an arm covered in tats. When she approached, he turned in profile and exposed his piercings; lines of rings around the top of his ears, and another through one of his brows. Not the typical look for Duluth, Georgia. Maybe he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere in Atlanta and ended up out here in the suburban sprawl instead of Little Five Points. He'd fit in that eclectic neighborhood. “I'm on my way out past Toccoa Falls. Got a bitch to see."
    "I'll bet you do,” Fonso said around a chuckle.
    Bitch? Let Fonso take care of the asshole.
    Allie scowled and started to turn back to the service bay when the man threw his jacket over the back of his seat. An emblem she'd dreaded