The Color of Love

Leon Sharp was the only other American I knew out here in the great white vastness of Russia. By trade he was a volunteer wildlife rescuer, determined to log the route of a rogue steep pack that had been killing off ranchers Yakuza cattle. Mirko would never allow a monitoring collar around his neck. He'd rather eat a bullet than be told where he could and couldn't go. When love hits a shifter, it hits like a Mack truck at the most inconvenient time.