JUST A PHASE: A Rejected Mates Shifter Romance (Not Another Teen Wolf Book 1) Read online

  JUST A PHASE

  NOT ANOTHER TEEN WOLF

  M.J. Marstens

  Copyright © 2021 M.J. Marstens

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher.

  It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  M.J. Marstens asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  M.J. Marstens has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any productor vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  First edition

  Cover by Everly Yours Design

  Edited by Fine Line Editing

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  TIME OF THE MONTH Sneak Peek

  Thank You

  More Wolves

  More about and from M.J. Marstens

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Leah Clearwater from Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight.

  * * *

  STOP!

  Hold up!

  Why did you dedicate your book to a fictional character, M.J.?

  Really?

  You want to ask me that when all the good stuff starts on the next page?

  Ok, ok.

  This book is for Leah, another snarky, bitchy she-wolf that I think would totally vibe with Rue. Leah got handed the short-stick in her situation. Here’s to hoping that doesn’t happen to Rue…

  WTF kind of dedication is that?!

  **smiles evilly**

  Read and find out.

  “Your dad and I want to talk to you about some, ah, changes that are going to happen to your body once a month.”

  I don't even miss a beat at this announcement as I stuff my mouth full of a chip topped with queso dip and salsa.

  “You guys already gave me the period talk,” I remind through a muffled mouthful. “Like six years ago—and I think we all remember how that talk went.”

  “I still have nightmares.” my dad whispers under his breath.

  I raise a hand to catch the attention of one of the cute Latino waiters.

  “Hey, can we get a few margaritas over here?” I holler, waving.

  “We're celebrating your nineteenth birthday—not your twenty-first.” my dad reminds drily.

  “There's no drinking age in Mexico,” I parry, making my mom frown.

  “This isn't Mexico; it’s America,” she says sternly.

  “Yeah, but we're in a Mexican restaurant, and I want some salt with my lime!”

  My mom starts to argue, but my dad rests a hand on her shoulder.

  “Maybe a little alcohol won't be a bad thing, considering—”

  “Considering what?” I interject loudly, obnoxiously stuffing my face with chips still. “And while I really appreciate dinner, I have to jet after this because I’m going to meet some friends. We're going out for my birthday to the dance club, yeah, yeah!”

  I wave my hands in the air like I just don't care to illustrate.

  “Rue, there's something your father and I need to tell you.”

  My mother says this with her serious face on. Of course, this is her face all the time, as is my father's. I seriously wonder where I came from because they're a bunch of sticks in the mud. It's really hard to believe that they might have ever been nineteen.

  “All right, I'm all ears.” I say, wondering what they can possibly tell me.

  Like I said, they already gave me the period talk.

  It was horrible.

  At twelve, I flat out denied it like I was going to bleed out of my vagina every month—oh, and add to that dudes don’t get one—total B.S. I remember I told my parents there was no way I was having one.

  It happened anyway.

  I’m still bitter, not better.

  A light bulb goes off in my head—maybe mom and dad are gearing up to tell me that once a month, I’ll ovulate and can get pregnant. Huh, I wonder if this is an awkward time to tell them I've been sexually active for the last two years?

  “You're a werewolf!” my mom blurts out.

  “Subtle, Sandy, real subtle,” my dad mutters sarcastically.

  My mom glares at him harshly.

  “You know how it is with her! You can’t gently ease into anything—it's just better to tell her and get it over with,” she argues.

  I look at them.

  “How long have you guys been at this restaurant before I got here? How many margaritas did you guys have before I got here? Where are my margaritas?!”

  “Yeah,” my dad says loudly, “where are our margaritas?!”

  He must be pretty upset about. . . whatever this is if he's changing his tune that quickly. The waiter quickly rushes over with three large original margaritas. I could kiss the man—not only for the drinks—but because he's one fine-ass specimen man. I give him a wink, but it's awkward flirting with your parents right across from you, ya know? So, I waggle my fingers at the guy and figure I’ll slip him my number later—after I find out what the heck my mom and dad are really trying to tell me.

  “All right, go on. I'm a werewolf.” I lower my voice. “Can somebody please tell me what werewolf is code for?”

  “Werewolf is code for werewolf,” my dad says, “because that's what your mom means.”

  I chuckle a little, licking some delicious, melted cheese sauce off my fingers.

  “Are you guys trying to play a trick on me—like April Fools but in the middle of summer? You two have bad timing, and no offense, bad jokes. Like, I wouldn
't even believe that.”

  “Sweetie, I want you to think about something,” my mom interjects. “Think about growing up.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, do you remember that once a month you would stay with my best friend, Pamela, and your dad and I would always go out to the country?”

  “Yeah, yeah—like every single month.”

  Now that she points that out, it does seem a little strange. I just thought it was their tradition, you know, to get away from me to go have country sex where I wasn't around to hear it and be traumatized—I always appreciated that about them—but I guess it wasn't about having country sex.

  Apparently, they were going to be werewolves.

  Huh. . . I really think they need to go see somebody. I wonder how I can kindly point out to my parents that I think they're insane when my mom starts rambling on about the objects in her office— wolf photos, talismans, and sculptures. Now that she points it out, we do have a lot of wolves in our house and an ass-ton of full moon paintings.

  It’s odd. . .

  Oh my god, my parents think they're werewolves.

  They’ve secretly been obsessed about it, and now they're trying to get me to join their werewolf cult.

  “Erm, ok, I get it. You guys are werewolves. That's cool. I totally support you in your, um, werewolf endeavors, but I don't want to be a werewolf—I just want to go to college and drink this margarita.”

  I punctuate my declaration by taking a giant sip of said margarita. My dad looks away before looking back at me.

  “Rue, this isn't something you can choose. It's kind of like your period—you can say no, but it's going to happen anyway.”

  “Puh-leeeeeze, quit reminding me about my period! Menstruation is bullshit, and I'm not a werewolf. And if I were a werewolf, I—oh my god. . .” I trail off as my brain has an existential epiphany.

  Flashbacks of our family vacations to the mountains, hearing my parents howl and hearing howling back, and my parents sneaking out at night to run in the woods come crashing back—but the most damning memory?

  A gem that my mind tossed away as impossible—a dream, I reassured myself—of my dad turning into a wolf.

  I start to hyperventilate.

  “This isn't happening,” I hiss, “and I refuse to address it! I mean, come on, you two! Why did you take me to a restaurant to tell me this?!”

  “Well, you love tacos,” my mom starts thoughtfully. “We thought it would help ease you into the situation.”

  “No! I mean—tacos are fantastic and they make everyone happy—but how can anyone be eased into this situation? It's nonsense!”

  “You're turning nineteen tomorrow, and the first full moon will be upon us in a couple nights,” my mom needlessly informs me. “You have to be ready for your first shift.”

  “Listen, the only time a parent should say that to their child is when they're talking about work—and we're not—so, I refuse to even address this crapchute of a situation. I want my tacos, and then I'm going out. I’ll probably skip this weekend’s brunch, too. We need some time apart, and just so you two know, I've had sex.”

  Both my parents cringe, probably from a combination of my words and my raised voice that has the people around us looking over at our booth.

  Mom rests a reassuring hand on my dad's arm.

  “Don't worry,” she whispers to him. “This is just a phase, and just like the moon has phases, you’ll only shift once a month.”

  “Just like your—” my dad starts, but I cut him off swiftly.

  “One more bloody comment tonight, and I won't let you see your grandchildren.”

  My parents sit back with horror in their eyes. This particular intimidation tactic is the only thing I have that might keep them at bay—the threat of never seeing my children that I'm not even pregnant with and are a mere twinkle in my womb's eye.

  But it does the job and shuts everyone up.

  We eat our tacos in silence, and I end up drinking all three of the margaritas on the table. The booze flows through me, calming my irritation and lulling me into a sense of ‘this isn’t happening’.

  Seriously, the best feeling ever.

  Whoever said liquor doesn’t solve your problems obviously didn’t try it.

  I stand up, prepared to take this evening to the next level, but promptly fall right back down on my ass, teetering heavily into the table—good thing I drank all the margaritas, or that could’ve been a mess. My dad sighs loudly.

  “Come on, kiddo, I don't think you're going out tonight.”

  See?

  Party-pooper with a capital P.

  My parents drive me back to their house and tuck me into my childhood bed. Nothing says ‘welcome to adulthood’ better than your mom pulling the blankets over your body as you drunkenly try to kick them off. I drift to sleep thinking dinner was a total bust—I didn't even get anyone’s number—when I hear my parents whispering.

  “That was a disaster. We should have told her years ago—”

  “We didn’t want this life for her, but it seems she has no choice. She grew up in relative peace without the demands of a pack, but now that her first shift is upon her, she must pick a mate,” my mom says in a hushed voice, easing my bedroom door shut behind her.

  A mate?

  Like a hunky Australian dude?

  Sounds tempting, and I have the best pick-up line for him ever—crikey, mate, stick your jumbo shrimp in my barbie.

  A tipsy giggle escapes me before I pass out.

  I can’t wait to meet my new friend because I’m a fucking catch.

  “Oh my God—I feel like I drank eight pitchers of margaritas!” I moan into my coffee, which I cling to like it's my salvation.

  If I can get the scalding bitter bean juice down my throat, I might—might—just not barf up everything I ate last night. And let me tell you something about tacos—they're delicious going down, but they are disgusting coming back up. Not to mention the burn, the God Almighty burn.

  Oh, why do I have to love spice so much?!

  Curse my tongue and its taste for piquant flavor, but I'm just not a vanilla girl—dudes appreciate this about me. Save that shit for birthday cake, right? I like my food spicy and my sex even spicier.

  “Can somebody bring me twenty ibuprofen before my head explodes, pleeeeeeeease?” I whine.

  “Rue, must you be so melodramatic and over exaggerate everything?” my mother huffs.

  “I’m dying!” I whisper in a croak, slamming my head on the table.

  I peek up to see my father taking a sip of his coffee, rolling his eyes at me.

  “Well, you didn't drink eight pitchers—you had three large margaritas when you should have had none—which makes you an idiot,” he concludes.

  “Wow, you really know how to make a girl feel special on her birthday,” I mutter caustically.

  “Speaking of your birthday,” my mom interjects, “last night's discussion isn't over.”

  I throw my hands up in the air and shout, “This is the birthday from hell! We're not continuing that conversation. It was in A-B conversation between you and Dad that I definitely C-ed my way out of!”

  My dad shakes his head.

  “That's not how that saying goes—”

  “Oh, it goes that way now. I slammed the door on that conversation, locked it with a key, and threw that bitch into the bowels of hell where even Satan himself couldn't find it!”

  “See—melodramatic,” my mother murmurs.

  “Well, maybe instead of hindering me, you should’ve put me into some acting classes. I could have had an Emmy by now!” I snap.

  “Doubtful,” my dad refutes dryly.

  “Yeah, well, with that kind of support, it definitely is doubtful.”

  “This is important, and we need you to take it seriously.”

  My mom’s softened her voice and her approach—like I'm a wild animal she needs to gentle. I'm definitely wild, and apparently, I’m an animal, too—a werewolf.
>
  “Tomorrow night is the full moon, and you're going to have your first shift whether you want it or not,” my mom continues, not privy to my thoughts. “We need to take you in front of the Council of Elders.”

  “Great. More old people telling me what to do. I can't wait,” I snark. My father gives me a warning. “Ugh, I'm sorry. Please, tell me more.”

  I say this to my mother as politely as possible, not meaning a word of it.

  “The Council of Elders will explain to you about your position in the pack and your need to. . .” She trails off, and I lift a brow, waiting. “You need to pick a mate,” she finishes.

  Vaguely, something in my mind jingles at this word. I recall my mom using it last night talking to my father—but I thought she just meant an Australian friend.

  “Mate—what mate?” I demand slowly.

  “All wolves have one lunar cycle to pick their mate after their first shift,” my mother explains.

  “And you picked Dad?” I smirk, pointing to him. “Were there no other options?”

  He scowls and throws a creamer at me.

  “I proudly picked your father,” my mother states.

  “Well, I wouldn't say you were too proud. Why did you guys hide this all my life?

  My mom slides my dad a look—I can tell they don't want to answer me. I cross my arms over my chest and wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  “Ok, well, if you guys don't want to tell me anything, then I'm not going to sit here and listen. Is my car back at the Mexican restaurant?” I ask Dad.

  “Yep. I’ve got your keys for you.”

  “Great. If you could just drop me off, I'll probably snag some lunch.”

  Even though the thought of Mexican food sounds disgusting now; I'm going to be starving in a little bit.

  It's a sound plan.

  “I'm just going to get out of your hair and celebrate the way I wanted to do last night—today.”

  “Rue, if you don't meet before the council after you shift and don't have a mate in one month—you'll go feral!”

  “Like Will Ferrell where every time I try to make a joke, it falls flat?” I tease.

  “Hilarious,” my dad snaps. “You know that's not what we mean.”

  I snort—the guy can’t take a joke at all.