Gray Back Bad Bear (Gray Back Bears Book 1) by T. S. Joyce

that, he jogged into Matt’s trailer and came back with a large boiling pot for her to start making a roux.
    Now, she liked to do her roux low and slow, so she was barely done with it by the time Jason said, “Look like you’re workin’. Boss and them boys are headed back, and Creed is in a foul mood today. He just about ripped my ear off through the phone earlier when he told me to get the crawfish.”
    “Because of me?”
    “Yep.”
    “Shit, Jason, you could’ve sugarcoated it a little bit.”
    “No sugar around here, trouble. Only spice.”
    Minutes later, she heard what must’ve warned Jason of his crew’s imminent arrival. Rumbling trucks and creaky brakes. Nervous flutters filled her stomach thinking about Creed’s anger. She hated being the cause of a rift in the Gray Back Crew.
    She scooped her chopped holy trinity—bell peppers, onions, and celery—into the dark roux, and stirred them constantly as the roar of engines grew closer and closer.
    Her palms were sweating now, and as much as she wished she could blame it on working around high heat, she was nervous from her hairline to her toes. By the time the two trucks pulled down the main, white gravel road that curved through the trailer park, her hands were shaking something fierce.
    A tall man with sandy brown hair and striking green eyes was out of a jacked-up old white Ford first. The slamming door echoed through the mountains. He cast one angry look at her, and she gasped. Blood ran from his ear, down the side of his neck, and he was carrying his arm strangely. It hung limply at his side, and crimson dripped off his middle finger in a constant pit, pat, pit, pat .
    “What happened?”
    The anger in the man’s face faltered. “I’m Easton.” His voice was too gravelly to be completely human, and his eyes were glowing that odd green color.
    “I’m Willa. Are you okay?”
    He looked down at his arm, then slid a confused look at her. “I’m fine.” Easton turned and strode up a worn trail that led into the thick pine woods.
    A traumatized-looking Clinton stepped out of the other side of Easton’s truck. “You sure as hell know how to make an entrance.”
    “Wait, I do?” She looked at Matt and Creed, who were getting out of the alpha’s truck more slowly, then back at Clinton. “What do you mean?”
    “You spent one night here, and the Gray Backs are already bleeding for you.”
    “Okay,” she drawled, a snap of anger blasting through her. “That’s bullshit. Y’all bleed all the time because you won’t stop fighting. Don’t pretend that crap started happening the second I showed up.”
    Clinton’s blond brows arched high, and a slow smile split his face. “You aren’t going to take my shit, are you?”
    “Not yours. Your alpha’s, though? Yes. Matt told me Creed is the boss man. You’re just a peon like me,” she said to Clinton with a wink.
    “Shit, girl, I like you already. What smells good?”
    “Gumbo,” she called over her shoulder as she scooped andouille sausage into the pot.
    Matt’s hands slid around her middle, and he rested his forehead on her shoulder from behind.
    “You hurt?” she asked quietly.
    “It’s nothing that won’t heal.”
    With a sigh, she turned and tried to control her fear when his eyes were that unexpected blazing silver color.
    A soft growl rattled his throat. “Don’t like when you smell scared.”
    “Let me see.”
    “Willa,” he said with a slow shake of his head.
    “Hurry up before I burn my roux.”
    Matt slid his inhuman eyes to the steaming pot, then lifted his shirt. Four perfect slices curved around his ribcage, probably created from Easton’s claws. Already, they were half-healed, but the bottom cut, the deepest, was still weeping red, and his white T-shirt looked like a crime scene.
    “Geez, Matt,” she murmured. “Does it hurt bad?”
    He nodded his chin once. “I need a minute.” He took off toward his trailer with long strides.
    “What about the crawfish?”