Page 9 of Fake It ’Til You Mate It

Betsy’s mouth opens slightly, taking in the wild opossum. A second later, she giggles, and I relax.

“Well, that would explain the scent,” she says. “Sorry. I heard you were a prey shifter, like me. Like so much of the town. Sheriff Lobo is a good male, but he’s a wolf. A predator. If he was sniffing around the new female in town, I thought I’d stop by, introduce myself, and see if you’re alright.”

Pointedly ignoring how she told me that the gossips have been musing about me and my heritage, I nervously adjust the spacing between the remaining pumpkin muffins I have, then say, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She gives me a look like she thinks my head is stuffed with cotton candy instead of brains. “Because he’s the top predator.” Glancing over her shoulder, checking to make sure that the sheriff didn’t suddenly appear while she was talking, she adds in a stage-whisper, “The Alpha.”

Thanks, Betsy. I had no idea.

“He seems nice enough,” I murmur.

Betsy snorts softly. “For a wolf, maybe. But if you get caught in his sight, watch out, that’s all I’m going to say.”

I give her a thin-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

I guess.

Maybe.

“Well, that’s that then,” she chirps, oblivious to my discomfort. “I just wanted to stop by and welcome you to Moonburrow! I work at the newspaper, so if you ever want to post an ad for your bakery, you let me know. Oh! I almost forgot. We also have our prey circle meetings at the community center every other Monday evening.”

I blink. Shifters aren’t really religious; at least, not like humans are. We’re devoted to our own gods and goddesses. For the wolves, it’s their moon goddess, the Luna. For opossums, we put all our trust in Fate and Luck.

I try not to think about how bad my luck’s been lately ever since I turned my back on accepting my fated mate. Then again, my quarter of witch blood could be to blame for how often I get myself into trouble since, well, I’ve always been a bit of a troublemaker, on purpose or not…

Even so, I wrinkle my nose. “Prayer circle?”

Betsy shakes her head. “No. Prey circle. Where we share snacks and safety tips and sometimes even swap stories about what it’s like to date predators.”

I blink. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“And helpful,” she adds. “Even if you’re a full-blooded witch, compared to the wolves in the pack, you’re one of us. Stop by on Monday.” Her expression turns coy. “If you really do have Sheriff Lobo’s attention, who knows? You might appreciate some tips.”

If I have Sheriff Lobo’s attention, I’ll keel over the moment he figures out that he’s stuck with a prey shifter as a fated mate.

I open my mouth to give her some non-committal response while knowing that I have no intention of ever joining their prey circle, but before I can, the bell above the door chimes again.

And I freeze.

There’s a wolf stalking into the bakery. Not my wolf. Not the one my traitorous instincts scream ‘mate’ at constantly, but definitely one with sharp senses and even sharper teeth.

He’s good-looking. I might be biased, but most of the wolves I’ve met are. There’s something way too tempting about such a fierce predator regardless of the fact that one growl will have me flat on my back in an instant—and I don’t mean prepared to mate. I’ll be ‘dead’, and have a whole lot of explaining to do.

In Moonburrow, I’ve had to get used to predators lurking everywhere. The Moonshadow Pack runs the town so it’s no surprise they’re always on patrol. And when they’re on patrol, they’re bound to get hungry.

This wolf has the usual golden eyes, only a lighter shade than Sheriff Lobo’s. His hair is a lighter brown, too, with a smattering of freckles dotting his almost pretty face.

Sheriff Lobo isn’t pretty. He’s rugged and sexy and… and if I really want to convince myself that he can’t be my mate, I need to stop comparing every male I meet in Moonburrow to its sheriff.

Betsy steps away from the counter as the wolf approaches it. True to her prey nature, she gives him a wide berth even as she says, “Hey, Declan.”

He nods at her. “Stopping by for a snack, Bets?”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh. Um⁠—”

I grab a small brown paper bag, shoving in the closest thing I can reach from the display case. “Here, Betsy. I almost forgot to give you your order.”

She throws me a look of pure relief. I shrug. Whether I’m hiding what I am or not, us prey shifters have to stick together.