Addie Read online

  Addie

  Pack of Misfits

  Raven Kennedy

  Copyright © 2019 by Raven Kennedy

  All Rights Reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This work, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by Nichole Witholder at Rainy Day Artwork

  Contents

  Foreword

  1. Addie

  2. Addie

  3. Addie

  4. Addie

  5. Addie

  6. Addie

  7. Penn

  8. Addie

  9. Addie

  10. Addie

  11. Addie

  12. Addie

  13. Lafe

  14. Herrick

  15. Penn

  16. Addie

  17. Penn

  Thanks For Reading

  More Misfits

  Also by Raven Kennedy

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Hey! Thanks for picking up Addie’s book!

  This was originally published as a short story in the Shifting Destiny anthology. It has now been expanded into a full-length novel, including new scenes and characters, and is the start to a new shifter series.

  Every book in the Pack of Misfits series will be a standalone for that character, but will be a continuation of the Pack Aberrant story.

  Book one is a reverse harem with multiple love interests with the main character. However, this is not a reverse harem series. Some main characters in this series will have monogamous relationships.

  This story is for readers 18 years and older and has strong language and sexually explicit scenes.

  Be sure to join my Facebook Reader Group and my newsletter so that you can be the first to know about my next release!

  To all the misfits.

  It’s okay to be different.

  1

  Addie

  I live with a pack of misfits.

  The runts and the prey. The scarred and the deformed. The albinos and, on the opposite spectrum, those with melanism. The rogues, the banished, the crazies, the rare, the small, and the weak. We’re all welcome in Pack Aberrant. In a world where only quintessential predator shifters are respected, life isn’t always kind to those of us who are different.

  And it’s not just other shifters. Even some of the other paranormal, arcane races—or Canes, as we all call ourselves—look down on us, too. The only people who don’t judge us are humans, but that’s just because they don’t know what we are.

  Most of us would probably be miserable or dead if Hugo hadn’t formed this pack and taken us in. Aside from being the best alpha I’ve ever known, he’s an albino jaguar. He knows what it’s like to be unwanted.

  When he was born, his pack leader declared him an aberrant. But in their pack, that title was like a contagious disease; something to be hated and avoided. All because his fur and eyes were a different color than that of his kin.

  Hugo was constantly challenged by other jaguars, and he has the scars to prove it. As soon as he was old enough to apply for rogue status, he left and never looked back. He formed Pack Aberrant as a big “fuck you” to his old leader, and the misfits had been lining up at his door ever since.

  Unlike other alphas who rule with fear, Hugo is loved and respected by every single member of his pack.

  Our pack may not be the strongest, but we totally win the most diverse trophy. There are just over a hundred of us here in Northern California, and we’re a mishmash of bizarre animals that probably look weird together, but we fit. We have each other’s backs and we are fiercely loyal to our hodgepodge pack.

  We have our own pocket of land in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, with plenty of space to roam. Everyone who lives in our little makeshift community contributes, either with a job earning money, or doing work around the commune. I do the former, since manual labor isn’t my strong suit. I’m more of an indoors-with-air-conditioning kind of worker myself.

  Beth, the bank teller who works next to me, slams her drawer shut and loops her lanyard keychain around her wrist. “I’m taking a break,” she mutters.

  It’s the first of the month, so today has been ridiculously busy. My feet are sore from standing all day, and all I want to do is sneak in the back and eat my box of crackers, but we’re short-handed and have a line all the way to the back, so I can’t.

  I nod at her distractedly as I continue counting money out to my customer. “Forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred.”

  The elderly woman in front of me takes her time re-counting everything. “There’s only eighty dollars here,” she accuses, shooting me a glare. “You’re shorting me!”

  I slide my hand over and separate the two bills that had stuck together. She glowers at me, as if I tricked her somehow. I shoot her a winning smile. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mrs. Lane?”

  She grumbles something incoherent, swipes up her bills, and marches away. I still have a smirk on my face when I call for the next customer. “I can help the next person,” I say, turning my face from the computer to greet them.

  The smirk falls from my face when my nose detects his scent. A shifter, and not one from my pack. I immediately straighten up, my eyes scanning him from top to bottom. Nice clothes, blond hair, winning smile. Everything about him screams friendly guy next door, but I don’t fall for it. I’m always wary of other shifters.

  “How can I help you?” I ask, trying to force a smile back on my face. I’ve found that it’s better to assess first as a friend, before being standoffish like a foe. But honestly, a lot of shifters do the exact opposite. We’re very territorial and distrusting of outsiders by nature.

  The shifter swaggers up to my teller window. “Hey. I need to take out some cash,” he says, passing over a withdrawal slip and ID.

  I completely ignore the fact that he’s ridiculously hot. Okay, maybe not completely. But I have a great poker face about it. Honestly, I think it’s his tan that really gets me going. I like it when a guy looks like he’s been out in the sun instead of holed up indoors. There’s something inherently sexy about it.

  His blond hair and hazel eyes complement his skin tone nicely, but his face? It’s lickable. And I don’t go around wanting to lick just anybody. But him? I’d risk the germs for him.

  I notice him taking me in as well, no doubt smelling that I’m a shifter, too. I ignore his perusal and take his withdrawal slip. I start typing away on my computer so I can get him taken care of as quickly as possible, because even though the guy is hot, he’s still an outsider.

  When I enter his account number and pull up his profile, my hand freezes on the keyboard because whoa. This guy is loaded.

  I discreetly rub my eyes with my hand just to make sure the numbers aren’t blurring together. Sometimes my mascara-covered lashes stick together and do that. But nope. There really are that many digits.

  I quickly drop my hand and put on my professional bank teller face so that I can pretend like seven-digit numbers are totally normal. Boring, even. A millionaire? Please. Same old, same old. If he’s waiting for a reaction from me, he isn’t going to get one. Professional. Bank. Teller.

  I check his ID for his name. Penn Weiss. “Would you like that in hundreds, Mr. Weiss?” I ask him.

  Did my voice just raise an octave?

  God, I think my palms are sweating, too. One hot and tanned outsider with a ridiculously fat bank account, and I get all jittery, apparently. I don’t know why, but rich people make me nervous. I didn’t actually know this about myself until right this second, but hey, self-awareness is good. I may work at a bank, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone have more than five digits at one time in this small town.

  Mr. Seven Digits looks up at me from his phone. “Sure. You can throw in some twenties, too.”

  I nod quickly, attempting to look normal. “Okie dokie.”

  He snorts under his breath and shoots me a look. “Okie dokie?”

  His hazel eyes twinkle with mockery. My own eyes narrow. Just like that, my nervousness is gone. “Are you making fun of me?”

  The corner of his lip twitches. “I just haven’t heard anyone say okie dokie since I was about seven.”

  “People say it all the time,” I say vehemently. “Maybe you should get out more.”

  A grin splits across his face. God, what kind of toothpaste is he using? His teeth are freaking sparkling. “Tell you what, you let me know what time you get off, and you can make sure that I get out more when I pick you up tonight.”

  Now it’s my turn to snort. “Yeah, no.”

  He tilts his head at me. “…Was that a yes or a no? You kinda said both.”

  “It’s a no.”

  He clicks his tongue. “Eh, you said ‘yeah’ first, so I’m gonna go with that one.”

  I shake my head. “No, no you aren’t. Because everyone knows that it’s the last word you say that counts.”

  It’s true. Ask anyone.

  He leans forward and braces his forearms on the counter in front of me, and my eyes automatically dart down at his chest that’s now on display. From what I can see, he’s muscled and just as lickable down there. He also has an excellent collarbone. Not that I’ve checked out many collarbones. Or any, besides his. But still. His is top notch.

  “Are you…looking down my shirt?” he asks, his voice f
illed with laughter.

  I snap my eyes back up to his face. “What? No,” I answer too quickly.

  The asshole laughs at me, making my face heat up. I don’t react well when people make fun of me. Call it a throwback from a terrible childhood.

  He flicks his hazel eyes to my nametag. “Okay, Aderyn Locke. You’re gonna have to buy me a drink for that down-the-shirt look you just stole.”

  I could try to deny it, but I’m no liar.

  I shake my head. “Nice try.”

  He keeps the amused smile on his face as he looks around to see if anyone is near enough to overhear. Everyone else who works here is human, and I don’t have the best sense of smell, but I’m fairly certain the rest of the customers in line are as well. When he’s sure we won’t be heard, he lowers his voice and says, “I can smell that you’re a shifter.”

  “Huh,” I say noncommittally, as I type more numbers into the computer. I’m not actually doing anything at this point. Fifty percent of this job is just pretending to do crap on the computer so that I can avoid awkward customer exchanges.

  But the longer he stands in front of me, the more I smell him. I don’t know what kind of shifter he is exactly, but Penn Weiss smells damn good. I’m not even one of those shifters that goes all scent-crazy, so that’s saying something.

  He lifts an arm to run his hand through his ashy blond hair. “Me and a couple of buddies just moved here. Used to be a part of the Moon Pack in Arizona,” he says, importantly.

  Ugh. Pack name dropping. I inwardly roll my eyes.

  When I don’t immediately gush, he pauses a bit and stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking unsure. “You’ve heard of them, I assume?” he prods.

  I pretend to be adequately impressed by smiling sweetly. “Of course. Every shifter in the western states has heard of them.”

  He grins cockily. The grin is nice. The cocky? Not so much.

  His name-dropping does more than just let me know he’s arrogant, though. It also clues me in to what type of shifter he is. The Moon Pack in Arizona is huge, made up of mostly wolves, bears, coyotes, and mountain lions.

  “Yeah. We were some of the best enforcers they had. But we decided to branch out last year. Started traveling around on our own. We’re wanting to relocate here with a smaller pack.”

  “How nice for you.”

  A line appears between his dark blond brows as he frowns at me. Oops. I guess I’m not doing so well at pretending to adequately fangirl. I’m sure he’s used to shifter women going berserk over his famous former pack. Me? I’m just wary. I blink at him innocently before pulling out his cash and start counting it out to him. When I’m finished, he sticks the wad in his wallet.

  “If you’re finished, the line behind you is pretty long, and—”

  “Actually,” he cuts me off. “I need info about local packs. My buddies and I are looking to apply to join one. We’d be excellent assets,” he says, and I swear, he flexes his muscles.

  What a tool. A pretty tool, though. I’d like to handle his hammer.

  “I’m sure you’re very impressive,” I say dryly.

  His frown deepens. Yep. My pretend game is definitely weak. “Yeah…ummm, so anyway, what pack are you in?” he asks.

  My expression immediately hardens and I abandon the fake smile altogether. I don’t like it when anyone asks about my pack. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I’m protective as hell.

  I know what happens when predator hotshots like this guy hear about Pack Aberrant. They laugh. They mock. They bully and throw challenges. It’s why my pack had to move around so much, especially in the beginning, when numbers were low. We are somewhat notorious in the shifter world. Other shifters love to ridicule us.

  But we’ve been in this territory now for ten years—as long as I’ve been a part of it. As long as the bigger asshole packs don’t know where we are, they can’t come in and challenge us for our land or kill our members.

  Luckily, there’s only one nearby—Pack Rockhead. Not so luckily, they’re my old pack. I left as soon as I was of independent age, on my fifteenth birthday. To say that there’s bad blood between us is putting it mildly. My blood relatives aren’t my family. They haven’t been since the first time I shifted. Pack Aberrant is more family to me than anyone that I share blood with.

  “Why do you care what pack I’m in?” I ask.

  He tilts his head to study me, probably wondering why I’m being so defensive. “Maybe I’m just curious.”

  “Well, I’m not here to satisfy your curiosity. I’m here to work.”

  His tawny eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Whoa. Down girl,” he says with amusement and a tugging grin. “You’ve got some bite. What are you? A wolf? Fox?”

  Yep, I’m done with his questions. “Have a nice day, Mr. Weiss.”

  “Oh, come on,” he says. “Look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Let me start over. Hi,” he says, holding out his hand.

  I think about refusing to take it for a second, but then I see my manager watching me from his office. He likes to write people up if he finds that our interactions aren’t friendly enough to customers. Grudgingly, I take his hand for a quick shake before dropping it right away, because as all shifters know, we have a thing for touching. It really riles us up. We’re a touchy-feely lot, and sometimes, our animals can get attached.

  “I’m Penn. Coyote shifter,” he says, confirming my guess about him being a pred. “It’s nice to meet you Aderyn Locke,” he says like a damn gentleman. I narrow my eyes at him to show him that I don’t appreciate it. He just smiles at me like he finds me adorable, which really raises my hackles. “I promise I’m not usually this bad at first impressions,” he tells me.

  “How do you know?” I challenge.

  He gives me a look. “I’d know,” he says assuredly.

  “Maybe you give bad first impressions all the time, but you just don’t know it because the other person always lets you down easy.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “Is that what you’re doing, Aderyn? Letting me down easy?”

  “If I was letting you down hard, you’d know,” I say with excessive sweetness. “Have a good day.” Then I turn to look at the next person waiting in line. “Next!”

  He stays at my teller window and opens his mouth to argue, but when the next customer walks up behind him, he has no choice but to turn and leave with a grumble under his breath. I just bested a pred, and it feels pretty damn good. My lips tilt up in triumph…only to immediately fall back down when a gun is shoved into my face.

  2

  Addie

  There’s nothing like the view of a gun barrel in the middle of a workday. And to think, twenty minutes ago, I was yawning and thinking about taking a nap after work. Now that’s out the window.

  “Get your fucking hands up where I can see them!”

  My wide eyes shoot across the bank to find that the shouted command is coming from a second gunman. Great.

  I lift my nose in the air a bit to pick up their scent. Not shifters. Not any kind of Canes, in fact. They’re both humans, and by the look of the one shouting at everyone to lay on the ground, they both have a superiority complex. You know the type—arms out, swinging like a gorilla, chin tilted up so that he can look down at everyone. He probably drives a lifted truck with tires big enough to haul around his huge sense of entitlement with him everywhere he goes. And when a dude has a big sense of entitlement, it usually means he has a very small...well, penis. There’s no point in beating around the pube bush about it.

  My eyes flick to Penn Weiss, Mr. Hotshot Coyote. He’s currently on the ground near the door with the rest of the customers, but I can see his body is tense and ready for action.

  As if he can feel my eyes on him, he suddenly glances over, his gaze locking with mine. When he sees that I have a gun currently pointed at my face, his lips curl back in a snarl. I try to give him a look to communicate with him not to do anything crazy, because that might make the gunmen panic and get the innocent humans shot.