She ran to the Alaskan wilderness to escape her demons. She never expected them to be real.

Wiley James has spent her entire life hiding what she is. Orphaned at four with no memory of her past, she's learned to bury the monster that lurks beneath her skin—the thing that makes her stronger, faster, and far too dangerous to ever let anyone close.

When her solo camping trip is interrupted by a mysterious stranger claiming she's a long-lost princess, Wiley thinks he’s crazy. Until he shifts into a creature straight out of her nightmares. Until he drags her through a gateway to another world.

Jayems has spent twenty years searching for his vanished betrothed. Now that he's found her, he's not letting her go—even if she'd rather punch him than kiss him. Even if she's determined to escape back to Earth. Even if keeping her means facing the enemies who tried to kill her family once before.

Trapped in the Dark Lands with her sassy best friend (who turns out to be dangerously attractive to the locals), Wiley must choose: keep running from what she is, or embrace her true nature and claim the life that was stolen from her.

But someone wants her dead. And this time, they won't miss.

Perfect for readers who love snarky heroines, protective alphas, and portal fantasy romance with bite.

A sizzling but not explicit romance novel.

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CHAPTER 1

She hated parties.

Parties meant happy, smiling people. Wiley James had never fit that crowd, so she ditched her boss's birthday bash and ran for the hills.

Literally. Sometimes a girl had to go AWOL.

It started like any other adventure—she scribbled a note with GPS coordinates for her roommate and best friend, Jasmine. Nearly as crazy as Wiley, Jas would roll her eyes, grumble, then load up her Jeep and track her down. Lemming, Wiley's search and rescue dog, would help. It was good training for the dog and a much-needed vacation for Wiley.

It wasn’t the first time she'd left a note for her good-natured friend to find after work. When Wiley had the itch to go, she waited for no one. Sometimes she thought she might explode if she didn't run into the woods. They were her solace, her grounding place. The only space where the restless energy crackling under her skin found release.

Some people relaxed by flying to the Bahamas. Wiley preferred to tackle the Alaskan hills.

She grinned as the cab dropped her off on a deserted highway. The driver had given her three separate warnings about bears, as if she didn't live here. As if she didn't know exactly what waited in those trees. She shouldered her pack, breathing in air so clean it almost hurt.

How anyone could call her state "Seward's Icebox" baffled her. Sure, it froze solid for six months, but the endless sunshine of the midnight sun and the crisp golden days of fall were breathtaking. The light here had a quality she'd never found anywhere else—sharp and clean, making every color more vivid.

Compared to places where the thermometer topped 100 degrees for half the summer, Alaska was heaven. After all, you could always toss another log on the fire. What could you do in the desert to ward off the sun? Sit in your refrigerator?

She smiled every time she talked to someone who hated it here. More wide-open spaces for her to play in. Fewer people to notice how odd she was. There weren't many women who liked to explore wolf-infested woods alone in late September with winter closing in. Even fewer who would call it fun to see no one but wildlife for days.

Jasmine blamed her friend's oddities on growing up an orphan, but Wiley knew better. There was something wild inside her. Something that needed to be free.

Something more than human.

She hid it well, of course. She smiled as she inhaled a breath of crisp, cold air, testing for scent traces of the game that had recently used this path. Her senses catalogued everything—the musky undertone of caribou, the sharper tang of fox, the fading trail of a lone wolf from hours before. No one could tell by looking at her that she could smell as well as any dog. No one knew how well she saw in the dark, how her pupils dilated until her eyes looked more animal than human. And nobody, not even Jasmine, whom she loved like a sister, knew what she could turn into in the darkness of the night.

But no one needed to know. That's why she was out here, stomping through the woods. As long as she burned off her emotions with constant work and rigorous exercise, as long as she ran herself ragged every single day, no one would ever know what she was. The darkness inside, the monster that lurked just behind her eyes, was a secret only the night could tell.

Rusty-red brush crunched under her feet, mixed with golden birch leaves that carpeted the trail in sunset colors. Though she could move silently when she wished—and sometimes did, just to prove to herself she could—she relished the snap of twigs underfoot today. Today was a day for noise, for release, for reminding herself she was still human enough to make sound like a human. She playfully kicked a loose rock and felt herself relax for the first time in days. Coming out here had been a really great idea.

She walked for a long time. Her legs found their rhythm, her breathing evened out, and the tension that lived between her shoulder blades finally started to ease. The light slowly faded, the long Alaskan day giving way to dusk, then darkness. She kept walking, using night vision alone, watching the world transform into shades of silver and shadow. Satisfied she was isolated enough to remain undisturbed, she gathered wood and started a fire.

Ringed with birches, the hillside clearing had a lovely view of the valley below. A half moon rose in the clear sky, casting pale light across the landscape. Stars, long hidden by the midnight sun, twinkled in the cool black expanse. The temperature dropped fast now that the sun had set, and she moved closer to the flames. Somewhere in the valley, a wolf howled—a lonely sound that echoed across the hills.

She shivered and threw another stick on the fire. The howl raised every hair on her arms, called to something deep in her chest. She deliberately turned her back on the sound and focused on heating water. Closing her ears to the sad wail, she busied herself with dinner prep.

Dinner tonight was hot cocoa and an MRE—Meal Ready to Eat. At 1250 calories each, the freeze-dried packet of chicken a la king held enough food to keep a hungry soldier on the march, or to seriously constipate a couch potato. All she had to do was rip open the packet, add boiling water, close it, and wait six minutes. She'd heard of other kinds that came with their own heating element, ready without adding water, but they didn't sell those at her local five and dime. They did sell trail mix and protein bars, though, which she'd stocked up on for breakfast.

One experience of eating reconstituted egg powder was enough. Even Lemming had put her nose under her paws and whined when Wiley offered it to her. Scrumptious, it was not.

While she waited for the water to boil, she assembled her tent with practiced ease. Her hands knew every pole, every stake, every zipper. Jasmine would strongly disagree, but Wiley thought the tent beat their apartment any day for simplicity. Toss in a sleeping bag and voila—all the comforts of home.

As long as nobody ate beans for dinner, they were in good shape. Jasmine was never going to let her live down the "Night of the Living Chili"—three cans of extra spicy chili and no Beano in sight. Well, a girl couldn't plan for everything.

She'd just turned back to the fire to check the water when she saw them.

Eyes. Dozens of them, glowing just outside the firelight.

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. There weren't many things that could sneak up on her, much less a dozen. Only one thing traveled in packs. Unless you believed in monsters...

Wiley was inclined to be concerned.

Drawing a slow breath, she reached for her sidearm, a .45 cal subcompact pistol. She always carried it in the woods, usually because of bears. Like all true Alaskans, she never left home without it. A girl never knew when she might stumble on a cranky sow with a cub. A bear could and would attack without provocation. A rifle would be better equipped to take on bears, but they were bulky and heavy on long hikes. At least the handgun was better than throwing rocks.

These were not bears, though. And she'd never thought to fear a wolf attack. Game was plentiful here. Wolves were shy. If it had been mid-winter and a lean year, things might have been different. But it was early fall. They should have full bellies.

They didn't smell like wolves.

Cold sweat gathered on her back. Her enhanced senses picked up something wrong—something off about the scent drifting toward her on the wind. Wiley cast a nervous glance at the fire. Maybe it would be enough to scare the animals off. If not, a few bullets couldn't hurt.

"Git!" she yelled, feeling like a fool. Contrary to the tree hugger's expectations, these were not fat, mellow zoo buddies. Alaskan wolves could take down a lone human if they were hungry enough. The fact that these animals didn't smell like wolves was still a problem. Maybe they'd rolled in something strange. Maybe this was a bad dream. Maybe reconstituted food was as bad as Jasmine always claimed, and it had finally rotted her brain.

And then the darkness spoke.

"You'll have to do better than that," said a man's voice from the shadows. An edge of dark amusement carried in his tone, and she shivered. He did not sound like a friendly hiker out for a stroll.

As the wind shifted, bearing his scent, she knew he was something much more dangerous.

He was not alone.

Three men melted out of the night into the fire's glow. A quick glance showed them all armed with sheathed pistols and wicked-looking knives. Hunters? She didn't think so, not running around in their shirtsleeves. The temperature had dropped below forty. If they'd been human, they'd have been freezing.

"What do you want?" she demanded, trying to look tough. Sweat made her hands slippery on the gun, which she held at low ready. The odds weren't in her favor. Three against one. All of them bigger than her. And why hadn't she heard them coming?

"You're trespassing on private property." The man spoke again. He and his companion were both tall, with the third man—the blond—only slightly less so. All three had long hair, though only the speaker's was clipped back from his face. Dark eyes studied her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

"I didn't see any signs posted," she said warily.

"Maybe you missed them in the dark," the dark one on his left said. His voice was smoother, almost conversational. "Are you alone here?"

"I'm camping. I expect company at any time." She kept her voice cold, authoritative. "My roommate is coming with my dog." No need to mention Jasmine was a petite asthmatic, or that Lemming would rather crawl up her leg than take on a wolf.

"What's your name?" The leader asked. His steady gaze was unnerving. She couldn't see the color of his eyes in the firelight, but they were set in a strong, austerely handsome face. High cheekbones, square jaw, a mouth that looked like it didn't smile often. His voice was deep and rang with authority. This was a man used to getting answers.

She couldn't think why lying would help. "Wiley James."

He jerked as if she'd slapped him. It was hard to tell through the smoke, but she thought he paled. His entire body went rigid.

"It couldn't be her, Jayems," the blond said quickly. "It's just a coincidence." He glanced her way, his expression sharp. "The girl couldn't be more than..." He frowned. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-four," she answered cautiously. It was only a few days until her birthday, but she wasn't going to age herself unnecessarily. Not for these guys.

The men stared at her. Silence stretched out, broken only by the crackling fire. Unnerved, she stared back. "What's going on?"

"You..." The one called Jayems paused, then seemed to continue with difficulty. His voice came out rough. "You're the same age as our cousin, who we lost many years ago. Her nickname was Wiley."

A sickening slide of premonition made her shiver. Her grip flexed on the gun. "I don't know you," she said with ruthless common sense. She didn't want anything to do with these guys. "I'm sorry for your loss and sorry I trespassed. If you don't mind, I'll pack up and leave right now."

The Cherokee look-alike stepped toward her. "Wait." He looked at her stocking hat, noted the brown hair peeking out in wisps around her ears. His gaze was assessing, clinical. "You have dark hair, but many people do."

"Yes, they do," she said edgily, keeping her arm loose and ready. One more step and the gun was going up.

"What was your mother's name?" the blond demanded.

Sweat trickled down her back. The subject stank, and the situation was extremely uncomfortable. Old wounds tore open, the ones she'd spent years trying to heal. "Don't know. I was an orphan. Stay back!" She pointed her gun at the Cherokee, who'd gotten too close.

"Keilor," Jayems said in warning, halting him.

Keilor stopped, canting his head in acknowledgment. But his eyes never left her face.

"Do you know where you were born?" Jayems asked carefully, as if he held himself in check. He sounded polite, but there was intensity to the question that made her uncomfortable. Like her answer mattered more than it should.

"No," she replied automatically.

"At what age were you orphaned?" Keilor asked casually. Too casually. He shifted his weight ever so slightly, the movement predatory.

"Young. I'm not the one you're looking for," she repeated, willing him to back off. Willing them all to just go away.

There was silence for several seconds. Then Jayems said, "We can't take that chance."

Someone grabbed her from behind. She screamed and struggled, tried to throw him off. Wiley was far stronger than she looked—years of training and that thing inside her made her stronger than any normal woman—but he had surprising strength. Inhuman strength. He grunted when she stomped his foot, but he wasn't going anywhere.

And then Keilor had her gun.

So she did the only thing she could. An act of ultimate desperation.

She changed.

"Oof!" Her captor grunted as she broke loose and threw him. Her strength tripled in transition, and he went flying. Barely avoiding the fire, he tucked into a roll and settled into a crouch, one hand braced on the ground as if poised to launch.

That was when she noticed there were others there. She was surrounded.

Wiley slowly backed up, bathed in cold sweat. She saw her hand, covered in long, silky brown hair. Thick fur sprouted along her forearms, down her hands. Her thick, strong nails had blackened and curved into claws. Her hearing intensified—she could hear their heartbeats, smell their sweat, sense every minute movement. Her breath came in scared huffs as her sharpened night vision pierced the shadows, counting wolves.

Only they weren't wolves. The faces were all wrong—the bones heavier, the teeth bigger. And they had ridges on their backs like wild dogs, spines of fur that stood up in threat display.

"It is you," Jayems breathed, and his eyes were glowing gold. He stepped forward, his hand out. "Don't be afraid. See, we're just like you." In a blink, he changed. Dark hair erupted all over his body, flowing like water across his skin. His nails lengthened and darkened. His face became the flattened face of a wolf, and his eyes gleamed golden in the firelight.

She screamed, or tried to. She had no voice to shout in that form. The sound came out as a strangled whine. She spun and ran, ignoring the threat of the animals around her, desperate to escape the nightmare. She was so scared that she shifted back to human as she ran. Somehow thinking the dream would end if she changed. If she woke up. If she could just wake up—

Strong arms grabbed her from behind, lifted her off her feet. Those arms were human. She cried out.

"Easy," Jayems said, subduing her effortlessly. His voice was gentle despite his iron grip. "Easy, Rihlia."

"L-let me go!" she shouted, freaking out. That name triggered something deep in her brain, some buried memory trying to surface. She knew she was dead. The monsters that had haunted her dreams for so long had finally caught her.

There was a burst of light, and she knew nothing at all.

"You shot her!" Jayems stared at the limp bundle in his arms, too stunned to do more than state the obvious.

"She's happier that way," Keilor said, putting away his laser gun. It had been set on stun. He holstered it with practiced ease, his movements calm despite the chaos of the last few minutes. "She'll be easier to take home if she's not fighting us all the way." He still looked dazed, as if he couldn't quite grasp what was happening. Then he blinked and focused. "You are taking her home after all this? Or were you planning to leave her to wake up and think it was all a dream?"

"Are you insane? Of course I'm not leaving her here!" Jayems looked around the campsite, cataloguing everything with sharp eyes. "But what about her friend? She said someone else was coming. Could he be one of us, too?"

His day had started out so ordinary. He'd reviewed the books for the Citadel, made arrangements for supply shipments, handled three minor disputes. Then he'd made plans to walk Fallon and Keilor to the gate. Fallon had business on Earth, tending to those of their kind who'd chosen to stay behind. Keilor had planned to visit, having never seen the planet. He'd been born in the Dark Lands, the world where most of their kind had migrated. He'd assigned his duties as Master of the Hunt and captain of the Citadel's guard to another. Jayems assumed his subordinate would be disappointed to hear of Keilor's sudden return. He couldn't imagine Keilor staying behind now.

He looked at Fallon.

The blond looked torn. He'd been as fond of Rihlia as any of them, had mourned her loss alongside the rest of their family. "My business can't wait, Jayems."

"I know. Don't worry, you'll be back, and she'll be there. This time, she's not leaving my sight." He adjusted his grip on the unconscious woman, cradling her more carefully. She felt too light, too fragile. Twenty years of not knowing if their kind would accept her, of hiding what she was. He looked around. "Keilor? Will you keep watch here? We'll need to be prepared in case she wasn't bluffing."

"Done." He looked at the girl in Jayems's arms, his expression softening. "I'll send the volti out scouting. They'll let me know if anyone is coming. I'll join you when I'm done here." Similar to wolves in temperament and appearance, the volti shared a unique bond with Jayems's people. Fierce and loyal, they occasionally served as guards or scouts.

Fallon said his farewells and strode off to take care of business. Keilor dismantled the camp as Jayems carried the girl to the gate, his small escort of soldiers following. Fortunately, Rihlia had been too occupied with Keilor to notice that she’d been circled, which had made securing her easy.

The gate between worlds was a subtle transition. You had to walk into it just so—the path was narrow and only accessible from one direction. One step you were on Earth. The next step, the world tilted slightly, the air pressure changed, and you were somewhere else entirely. Moments after he'd started on the path, the landscape suddenly changed. One moon became three in the balmy sky, hanging like silver ornaments against the dark. Volti wove in and out of the tall ferns between giant trees, their forms flickering through the undergrowth. A spicy forest smell wafted on the gentle wind, mixed with the distant scent of the sea.

The path through the forest was dark, but he didn't need light to find his way. His senses were finely attuned to the rustle of ferns as small creatures hurried away from their volti escort. Conscious of encroaching branches, he was careful to keep his precious burden safe. She'd traveled a long road to get here. He didn't want to risk her getting hurt now.

It took only a few minutes to reach the gates of the Citadel. Massive stone walls rose up through the trees, ancient and imposing. The Haunt guards, always in wolf form, saluted him with respect even as their eyes lingered on his burden. He was glad she couldn't see them, considering how she'd reacted to his own transformation. The terror in her eyes had cut deep.

That had been odd, given that she'd been the one to change first. It was one of many questions he had for her. They had years of history to cover, twenty years of lost time, and he was anxious to start. The mystery was eating at him.

Parquet tiles clicked under his boots as he made his way down the hallways to his rooms. Torches flickered in wall sconces, casting dancing shadows. The Haunt stationed at the doors opened them, and in moments he'd crossed the sitting room and laid the girl gently down on the couch. He studied her, frowned, and straightened her head on the pillow. Her face was pale, peaceful in unconsciousness.

She was dressed too warmly for the climate. The Dark Lands were temperate, almost tropical. Keeping a sharp eye out for movement, he pulled off her hat, releasing a riot of dark hair plastered with sweat. The heavy coat had to go, too, but he dreaded taking it off. She would not be pleased to wake up and discover him undressing her. He pulled it off as fast as he reasonably could and laid it next to her hat. While he was at it, he dispensed with her boots and the second layer of heavy socks. Her feet were small, surprisingly delicate. The rest he'd leave to her.

Searching for a handle on the moment, he glanced out the window that took up an entire wall and looked at the three moons. She was going to wake up soon and would want explanations. One couldn't take a woman, dump her on one's couch and expect her to take it calmly.

Practical matters first. She'd been cooking her dinner. She would be hungry and perhaps thirsty. Fetching a tray with a glass of water, bread, cold meat and fruit took too little time. He arranged it carefully, then found himself standing there, staring at her, willing her to wake up.

When she did wake, her eyes opened with a snap. No gradual return to consciousness—one moment asleep, the next fully alert. She took one look at him and tried to back up over the couch. "Don't touch me!" she shrieked when he reached out a reassuring hand.

He spread his hands and backed off, giving her space.

Breathing hard, she stared at him, her eyes wild. Whatever their natural color was, at that moment her eyes were gold with stress. Literally gold, glowing faintly in the dim light. Sweat trickled down her temple and dripped down her neck.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said calmly, willing her to believe him. Keeping his voice steady, unthreatening.

"You stole me!"

"Yes, I did. I wanted to bring you here to explain."

"There's nothing to explain. You take me back right now or I'll..." She looked around, searching for a weapon. When she found nothing more dangerous than couch pillows, her eyes shot to his weapons. The knife at his belt. The gun on his hip. She glanced at his face and shivered. Maybe she dreaded the change more than she did his weapons.

"I don't hurt women," he tried again. "I'm especially not going to hurt my betrothed."

Her expression of horror said it all. "Your...?" She couldn't get the words out. Her face went white.

Afraid she would hyperventilate, he snapped, "Breathe! You're going to make yourself sick, woman." Concern for her made it difficult to keep his distance. He wanted to touch her, to soothe, and knew she wouldn't receive it well. He was a stranger to her, and dangerous. He couldn't go to her.

Anger seemed to serve her better than coddling. "You're not marrying me!" she ground out. She stopped shrinking into the couch, straightened her spine.

He looked to the side, searching for patience, hoping to steady his nerves. Her distress was affecting him, making his own pulse race. "We were betrothed when we were both younger, Rihlia."

"That's not my name! You've got the wrong girl."

"I hear what you're saying, but a simple fingerprint match will prove it. If that's not enough for you, we can take stronger measures. As for me, I'm convinced. It was no accident you were there tonight. Things were taken out of our hands."

She was shaking her head. "You're crazy!"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He took a slow breath, counted to five. "You were traveling with your parents when you were four years old. Their party was attacked. You were lost in the battle and presumed dead. We never found your body, though we searched for days. Now I know you found the gateway to Earth and wandered through. Someone must have found you and..." He trailed off, unsure how the rest of the story went. "Tonight I found you again."

"You found me, and now we're not on Earth," she said with derision.

He gestured behind her.

She narrowed her eyes, then risked a peek over her shoulder. She stared. There was a moment of strangled silence. "It's a trick."

He went to the balcony and threw open the door, letting in the warm night air. It smelled of salt and spice, completely unlike the crisp cold of Alaska. "Go outside and look at the trees. Feel the warm wind. Look at the sea below us. Were you anywhere near a sea when you camped?"

She glanced at the three moons through the huge window, then at the open balcony door. She didn't move.

He left the door open and moved away, giving her room. "It's no less real if you refuse to look."

Slowly she rose and edged to the door, keeping an eye on him. She stepped out on the balcony and looked out for long minutes. He watched her from inside, saw her shoulders sag, saw her grip the railing. When she came back in, her eyes were haunted.

"Water?" he offered when she dropped back to the couch. She looked shaken, lost.

She stared at the refreshment tray, then gingerly picked up the glass and took a sip. Her hands trembled slightly.

"It's been a long day for you. You can stay in the spare room for tonight. It has a private bath and a lock on the door. No one will disturb you. If you would like to rest now, we can talk in the morning." She didn't look as if she could take much more, and he needed to think.

She looked at the water in her hands with a lost expression. Like a child who'd been told everything she knew was wrong.

At least it was an improvement over trying to climb the walls. He sighed. He wanted to comfort her, but knew she would reject him. Not tonight, when the shock was so strong.

Instead, he summoned a maid and sent her to prepare the spare bedroom. He kept an eye on his guest. She watched him cautiously, tracking every movement, and he gave her space.

When the maid left, he walked back to Rihlia, careful not to get too close. It hurt too much when she cringed from him. "Your room is ready and the maid drew a bath. She's left fresh clothes on the bed. If you need anything during the night, you have only to ask." He glanced at the table. She hadn't eaten a bite. "Would you like to take the tray with you?"

When she stood but said nothing, he retrieved the tray and took it to her room, leaving it inside. She didn't enter the room until he left, then she slammed the door and locked it. The click of the bolt sounded very loud in the quiet room.

"So much for a truce," he muttered ruefully.

Feeling tired, he paced over to the balcony and looked out, though he didn't exit the room. Somehow he felt he'd better keep an eye on her door, lest she disappear again. If possible, he'd have stood over her just to make sure she didn't vanish. Twenty years of thinking her dead had taught him not to take anything for granted.

Had it really been twenty years since her disappearance? So much in his life had changed. She'd been so young when they'd been betrothed—barely more than a toddler. But if she hadn't been lost, they would have already been wed for six years. If he'd only known she was alive...

It didn't matter now. There were things that had to be done, arrangements to be made. For a moment the thought crossed his mind that she would have been better off left alone, but he shook it off. After all those years of searching, of seeking answers, of the ache of not knowing, he couldn't just leave her in the woods. As hard as it might be for them both, he was going to make this work.