As an anthropologist, pack dynamics are naturally fascinating to me. The strict hierarchies that dictate social structure. The unwritten codes of behavior that govern their their roles and responsibilities. The distribution of power between dominant and submissive members. And the strong family-like bonds used for mutual protection and the safeguarding of pack territory. These are all characteristics that have evolved in order for the wolves to not only survive, but also to thrive.

There is a part of me that craves this type of community, and why wouldn't I? It's who I'm supposed to be, no matter how much my parents tried to suppress it.

Clayton has even invited me to join his pack, although that makes it sound like he sent me a gold-embossed card with an option to RSVP. But that is nowhere near the truth of what happened. Because he basically backed me into a corner without any other viable options.

Maybe it was just out of pride, but I immediately refused him.

That was probably the wrong move, I know, especially when I'm risking having a missing person's case pinned on me. Plus now that I've found out that the man who signs my paychecks (figuratively anyway) heads another local pack, my job could also be on the line if I don't make a choice soon.

But how am I even supposed to pick?

First of all, I don't even know if Black River would want me. So then it's either Allegheny or staying rogue. Apparently the latter's not an option either since getting stuck between two rival packs means being on the bad side of both.

I wish there was someone I could talk to who'd give me some objective advice, and I totally see the irony in that desire with regards to weighing the merits of solitude over a community.

"Hey there, beautiful. What are you drinking? My treat," says someone as they slide into my booth across the table from me.

We're in the COCK AND MAMIE pub, the only '21 and up' place on the whole campus. With a barmaid holding a rooster on its carved clapboard sign out front, it had just the right amount of raunch to pun ratio in its name to catch my eye.

I also thought this would be a good place to avoid the chaotic energy of college kids on a late Saturday without staying cooped up in my cottage. And up until now, things have been fairly quiet in this old English-styled establishment, with mostly older graduate students or faculty passing through for a drink and a light meal. I, myself, have been peacefully downing decaf lattes alternating with virgin cranberry spritzers all afternoon.

Until this drink-offering someone decided to crash my internal existential debate, that is.

I look up from page sixty-three of the textbook I'd been staring at for the last ten minutes while trying unsuccessfully to plan my next lecture.

"Uhm, what?" I ask the strange guy in a Greek system shirt and backwards baseball cap holding a half-full pint of beer.

"I'm gonna buy you a drink. What's your poison? You look like a tequila kind of girl to me," he says, already waving at the bartender. "Hey! Two tequilas over here, man. Thanks."

"Oh, no. No tequilas," I say, tapping my book to emphasize all of the imaginary reading I still have to do. This dude has clearly mistaken me for being just another student, and even if I were, drunken fraternity brothers were never my type.

"Come on! Live a little, sweetheart," the guy says, reaching for my hand, but I pull it away.

"I think that might be Professor Sweetheart and she was quite clear with that no," says the bartender who's appeared at the booth in the nick of time.

Tall, blonde and very good looking, he's a bit too built for me, but the bulge of his muscles under his crisp button-down shirt is just enough to get the message across.

"Yeah, sure, man," says the kid as he scoots out of the booth with his proverbial tail between his legs. "Whatever."

I giggle at his final word and look up at my savior.

"Thank you. I think I had things under control, but it's nice to know you look out for your customers," I say with a smile.

He wipes his hand on the tea towel tucked in his waist and nods. "I have to admit, bringing these entitled little brats down a peg is one of my favorite parts of this job. But that a-hole already has two strikes against him so next time he's going on my Wall of Shame."

I laugh again and realize that while he's extremely charming, I don't want to give this guy the wrong impression, either.

"Uhm, how did you know I'm faculty and not a student?" I ask, leaning over the textbook.

It's the bartender's turn to smile and if possible, he's even more handsome. And maybe a little bit familiar . . ..

"No student would be caught dead studying in here on a Saturday afternoon," he says, pointing to the increasingly raucous clientele that has gathered inside since my arrival hours ago.

And now I'm almost embarrassed. "Right," I say, looking down and nodding self-consciously.

"I'm just kidding. I caught a glimpse of your I.D.," he says, pointing to the card peeking out from under the book.

I reach for the identification card and tuck it into my pocket. "Okay. That makes me feel a little less like a nerd."

"No worries," he says. "You're free to work in here any time. But I think I am going to need this booth soon for a bigger group so—"

"Oh my goodness. I'm so sorry. You're totally right," I say, scrambling for my things. "I've squatted for way too long and—"

"You don't have to leave," he says. "There's plenty of room at the bar and I may have already put in an order of loaded fries with the kitchen for you. On the house."

My eyebrows shoot up at the prospect of free food. "Loaded fries, you say? Well, I wouldn't want to be rude."

I dump my stuff into my bag and take a seat at the bar. The chair isn't as comfortable as the padded booth, but I have a whole different view of the place. I hadn't even noticed the working fireplace on the far wall before, and now I can totally see the carved details on the coffered ceiling. There are also pieces of eccentric decor I missed like the stuffed hare wearing a monocle on a nearby shelf.

"Here you go. Bon appetit," says the bartender as he places a huge plate of French fries topped with bacon, cheese, chives, sour cream and goodness knows what else in front of me.

I'm already salivating. "Thank you, uhm . . .. I'm sorry. What was your name again?"

The blond hunk holds out his hand. "I don't think I gave it, but I'm Spencer."

"Hi, Spencer. I'm Barlow," I say. "But you might have already known that."

His eyes in surprise, so I clarify. "You know, from my I.D."

Spencer relaxes. "Oh, right. The I.D. Enjoy your fries, Barlow."

I dig into the salty, greasy mound of deliciousness as Spencer steps aside to serve another customer.

"Yum," I whisper, already worried about the pounds I'm going to be packing on after returning for this in the future.

"How is it?" Spencer asks, glancing at me as he mixes a cocktail.

I wipe the corner of my mouth. "So good," I say. "But are you sure your boss is okay with freebies?"

"Pretty sure since I own the joint," he says.

"No!"

"Yeah."

"Be serious."

He hands the cocktail off to a waitress. "Why is it so hard to believe?"

I shrug. "You're so young. And, I don't know, not very English or something?" I say, laughing at my own weak logic.

"Well, I'm twenty-eight so I've been a legal adult for a decade and the decor is meant to be more Old World European than specifically King's English. But this place is a family business that I inherited, so you're sort of right, I suppose, " he says before pointing to a huge double portrait a bit farther down the wall. "Those are actually my great-great grandparents over there."

"Get out of here!" I say again, continuing my skepticism although this is a little more grounded than my previous doubts regarding Spencer's entrepreneurship. Because the painting of a beautiful young couple in gold-threaded clothes, bejeweled badges and regal tiaras is straight out of a place like Buckingham Palace.

"I am one hundred percent telling the truth," he says, striking a pose similar to the man on the painting. "See the resemblance?"

Honestly, I do and my jaw literally drops in surprise. "Wow. Okay. So does that mean I have to bow to you now, your majesty?" I ask, scooping up some melted cheese with a fry.

Spencer leans against the back counter and crosses his arms. "Unfortunately not. My relatives were dukes or counts at the most, but they lost everything in the early Twentieth Century when people began to realize that they could rise up against the status quo."

"Right," I say, recalling how a bunch of countries like Russia or Germany eliminated their nobility practically overnight in popular uprisings with various degrees of bloodshed. "Sorry about that, I guess."

He laughs. "No worries. At least they got to keep their heads and eventually my family made it over to America, so all's good," he says before a waitress taps him on his shoulder and whispers something to him. It must be important, since Spencer's expressions becomes more serious. "Will you excuse me, Barlow? I gotta take care of something."

"Oh, sure," I say, wiping my cheesy fingers on a napkin. "I should get going, too. My laundry's not going to wash itself. But thanks for the food and it was nice talking to you."

Spencer disappears into the kitchen and I push my way through a crowd playing darts to get to the exit. Outside, I'm shocked to discover that the sun has long set and it's now dark.

Although the walk back to my house is familiar, I'm still a bit on edge from last night. But then again, I wouldn't mind Clayton following me again today and as my thoughts turn to him, my mind is put at ease.

Ignoring his ultimatum, I focus on just the man. His piercing eyes. His strong hands. His comforting presence. And then there's always the brief glimpse I got of everything when we woke up together in the forest.

Someone grabs me from the back and I don't even have time to scream before a hood is pulled over my head and a rag is stuffed in my mouth. With my arms pinned, I try to kick with my legs, but I'm lifted off the ground and carried. To where is anybody's guess. But the fact that I have no way of resisting scares me most of all.