Page 1 of Brandon’s Mate

Prologue

Six Years Ago

It was 3 a.m., and Brandon Fierro was climbing the huge oak tree in the center of the Bad Blood shifter crew’s territory, trying not to wake anyone up.

Above him was the three-story tree house he’d grown up in. It felt strange being here—he’d only been back a couple of times since their alpha, Flynn, had kicked him out of the territory three months ago.

Neither visit had gone well.

With the stealth born of dozens of nights sneaking in after curfew when he was a teenager, he bypassed the window of the room he’d shared with his brother for so many years.

Then his parents’ room on the third level.

He knew he was a chicken-shit for not saying goodbye, but he couldn’t stand to watch their faces when he told them he was leaving for good.

He wasn’t telling anyone. He didn’t need their pity, and he’d had enough of their disappointment.

He had to go; he knew that now. Not just hanging around a few miles away, like he had been, but somewhere that he could start fresh. Be his own person, do something with his life besides try and fail to fit in with the rest of the Bad Blood Crew.

He climbed past the roof, then balanced himself on one of the upper branches while he reached into the hollow cleft where he’d always kept the plastic box with all of his childhood treasures.

None of them mattered anymore, except one.

Down in the bottom was a cheap silver-colored necklace. It was half a heart, cut jaggedly down the middle, with parts of two words engraved on it. When it was matched with the other half, it read “Best Friends.”

He slipped the necklace over his head and tucked it down his shirt. Kitty Jameson had given it to him when she was nine years old, because she thought a teenage troublemaker like Brandon Fierro was her best friend.

Friends. Yeah.

Kitty was fifteen now and after what happened a couple weeks ago, she probably never wanted to see him again. But somehow, out of all the things he’d left behind in Bad Blood territory, he couldn’t leave this.

He was a fucking idiot.

Brandon climbed back down to the big wraparound porch on the lowest level of the tree house. He pulled a rumpled envelope out of his pocket and wedged it in the crack between the front door and the frame, where his family couldn’t miss it.

Then he silently lowered himself to the ground and walked away.

He walked out the dirt road to where he’d left his truck, so that no one would hear him drive into the compound. He got inside, started it up and flipped on the headlights.

Flynn was standing in the road in front of him, a battered duffel bag over his shoulder. His huge bulk seemed to fill the whole road, his tangled black dreadlocks hanging down past his shoulders.

Immovable as a rock.

For a second Brandon considered just flooring the truck and making Flynn jump out of the way while he blew past.

Except Flynn was… Flynn. Legendary badass, dominant-as-fuck alpha, and juiced with some kind of dragon magic from his mate. Hell, there was every chance Brandon would just wreck his damn truck running it into him, and Flynn would be standing there without a scratch.

Besides, even though Brandon was twenty-one, Flynn just thought he was a punk kid who was too much trouble to deal with. He might as well put on some semblance of adulthood.

He climbed out of the truck and walked out to meet the alpha.

They faced each other, Brandon feeling dwarfed by his size, even though he was only a few inches shorter now. He remembered when he was a tiny kid and used to follow Flynn around, thinking he was some kind of fucking superhero.

Now he just said, “I’m leaving.”

Flynn nodded slowly. “I figured.” He paused. “You’re not coming back, are you.” It wasn’t a question.

Brandon gave a snort. “Does anybody want me to?”