Desired by the Pack: Part One: A BBW Paranormal Romance by Emma Storm Page A

of something to soothe his wolf long enough for the Guardians to conduct their business. He was looking for the green scent of grass, or a hint of mud to tide the wolf over, but what he found…
    What he found hit him like a fist to the gut, or a pair of warm, parted lips gliding along his throat. Ignoring the pack, he closed his eyes and breathed her deep into his body.
    Musky, sweet, like caramelized sugar. He knew that scent, hadn’t forgotten it in the eight years since she’d sashayed her cushiony, heart-shaped ass away from him. Tonight, her scent was charged with a little extra something specific to all werewolf females in Heat, a moonlit liquor that threatened to do him in.
    Beck started moving, powered more by instinct than thought. He sensed his pack mates behind and to his sides, heard Maverick mutter something to Cross, and those familiar things reined Beck in. He had to keep his head on straight, whether he had four loyal men at his back or not.
    The pack cut a path through the parked bikes. A bald kid wearing leather that exposed the ink on his biceps watched the Guardians warily but didn’t attempt to stop them.
    Smart kid. Beck checked him with a look, making eye contact to verify they were all on the same page, and then Cross pulled the door open.
    The yeasty odor of beer and unwashed bodies rolled through the door, momentarily muting the female’s scent.
    Beck stopped there in the doorway and forced himself to focus. He wasn’t there to find a woman, not even one who’d haunted him for eight years. Area werewolves had a media problem and Beck needed to know whether that problem was his to resolve or whether the whole thing was a hoax he could ignore.
    “At the bar.” Anders spoke from his right.
    At Beck’s nod, the Guardians made their way through the throng and joined Allen Moore, the wolf-born human who had arranged the meet-up.
    As the pack gathered, that end of the bar cleared out, responding to something more primal than fear, an innate awareness of the bigger, badder monster. It was just about impossible to consume enough alcohol to mute the feral vibes that clung to even the most laid-back werewolves if they gathered in force.
    Allen, an arson investigator and damned useful man to know, raised his hand to get the bartender’s attention. Five pint glasses appeared a moment later.
    Beck ignored his. He didn’t want to wash the female’s scent off his tongue. A quick visual sweep of the crowd revealed several women, even a few who caught his eye, but none who fit the scent. His wolf wanted to hunt for her in earnest. Beck overruled the instinct-driven beast.
    “What do you have?” Cross asked the question and took a deep drink from one of the foam-topped glasses.
    Allen put one elbow on the bar top and swiveled to face the pack of them. He was clean-cut, in his late forties, and had the air of a man who had faced worse threats than a bar full of bikers. Grabbing his phone from the bar, he slid his nicotine-stained fingers across the screen a few times before handing it to Beck.
    A video flickered on the screen, small but clear. At first Beck could only see the neat houses lined up close enough to give his wolf a case of claustrophobia. The video either didn’t have sound or the bar was too noisy for Beck to make out the commentary. What he couldn’t hear didn’t matter as much as what he could see, and that made his eyes narrow.
    Cross shifted beside him. A long, low whistle blew past his lips. “That’s not good.”
    “No.” Grim, Beck watched the rest of the video while headlines flashed at the bottom of the screen, saying things like “possible bear” and “enormous wolf running on two legs”. The existence of werewolves was as much public record as the existence of vampires, but the media was playing it strangely safe.
    The clip ended. Beck looked up at Allen. “Are there other videos?”
    “That’s the only official one, but it was shot by the Tri-State