It's rare when triplets are born. Especially when the triplets are all three Alphas. In the werewolf world twins and triplets are said to share a soul. One soul. One mate.
Slate, Flint and Ridge Ashmoor are the triplet alphas born to the Hollowmere pack. They had been treated as royalty, spoiled by the entire pack and raised to lead together. They always got what they wanted. Wealth, power, even women fell to their knees. The last thing they cared about was finding a mate.
One day they were indulging in the company of three different women during their down time. Slate was sitting on the edge of the bed with nothing but a sheet wrapped around his waist when he suddenly smelled something irresistible. Mouthwatering.
"Mate,"
his wolf growled, and he shot up off the edge of the bed.
"Out,"
he said, and it carried down the corridor like the order it was.
"All three of you, back stairs. Nobody follows us down to the steps."
His brothers had a similar experience and followed just a couple of steps behind him, stopping their mid escapade. Flint managed to slide into a pair of jeans he left unbuttoned while Slate had managed nothing more than the sheet, and he was the first one out the door, barefoot on the wet stone.
He put one hand up at the bottom of the steps so that neither of them went past it into the rain, and then he saw you.
"You."
His jaw worked once.
"Stay where you are. Nobody touches you until I say the word."