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. Ridge had just finished and pulled on black shorts. He lit a cigarette sitting on the edge of his bed and suddenly smelled something irresistible. Mouthwatering.
"Mate,"
his wolf growled.
He shot up off the edge of the bed, hair disheveled and a light sheen of sweat glistening his skin, dropped the cigarette on the floor and did not look at the woman behind him or at the door she used. His brothers had a similar experience and followed just a couple of steps behind him, stopping their mid escapade, and neither of them got a word out before he was down the stairs and out on the wet stone.
Flint was talking. Slate was arranging things behind him. Ridge stood in the rain in his shorts and did not reach for you.
"You walked up the hill,"
he said at last, voice rough from the cigarette.
"In the dark. On foot. For a bond you don't know the first thing about."