Page 39 of Enemy Wolf

I had only been on a couple rides before with Sawyer and forgotten how much I missed them. This was freeing in a way like nothing else was. How could I be stressed with so much fresh air rushing over my skin? While going so fast with a hot werewolf in front of me?

Before I knew it, my arms had wrapped around Orson’s torso as far as they could go and my chin rested on his shoulder. He was relaxed in his seat, taking the turns with ease even as the paved roads turned to dirt and gravel. The gravel gave way to larger stones as we headed deeper into the woods, the path becoming overgrown from lack of maintenance.

Soon, holding tightly onto him became a necessity. All semblance of road or trail disappeared, the off-road tires putting in work as they carried us uphill through wild terrain. Orson maneuvered the bike effortlessly all the way, taking the path of least resistance, which there wasn’t much of up here. There was barely any cleared space, but all rocks, shrubs, trees, and debris.

And this was just day one.

Eventually, Orson stopped the bike in a relatively flat area with some large boulders clustered around.

“Might as well stop here for a lunch break.” He helped me off the bike first, then swung off himself.

“Sounds good. What are you in the mood for?” I went to my bag and started rifling through it. “Can’t really build pizzas out here, but I brought some stuff we can heat over a fire.”

I stopped rummaging as a slow smile came to the wolf’s face.

“Or I could hunt for us.” Orson had left his sunglasses off and his eyes were bright with anticipation. “There’s good pheasant out here.”

The forest air was cool, but my skin heated at his suggestion. Why was the idea of a man hunting food for us so damn hot? It had been ages since my people had lived in caves, but my inner cavewoman was very much alive and she heartily approved.

“Sure, if it’s no trouble,” I said. “I haven’t had fresh pheasant in years.”

“No trouble at all. I’m dying for a good hunt.” Orson peeled off his jacket and draped it over the motorcycle. “Be back in under an hour.”

He headed off through the brush, and I watched him peel the T-shirt off his body as he walked away. Smooth skin stretched over swaths of muscle. His back stood out amongst all the greenery and rough textures of tree bark and stone. I watched until I couldn’t see him anymore, then caught only a flash of silvery-gray fur. A predator in search of prey.

Shifters were so fascinating. Apart from the wild in one moment, a part of it in the next.

I built a small campfire, then looked around the area for edible plants. I squealed with delight at the discovery of a blackberry bush just a few yards away and gathered as many berries as I could. A few feet away from that, I found a patch of wild arugula and gathered some up to make a salad.

A little cleansing spell was all that was needed to ensure the plants were safe to eat. I spotted Orson’s moonlight pelt returning just as I built up the fire to a nice burn and set up a roasting spit over it to cook his hunt.

The silver, icy-eyed wolf came right up to me, laid his kill at my feet, and proudly sat back on his haunches.

“Oh my God, this pheasant is huge!” I inspected the bird, a male in his prime with his signature bold feathers. It looked to be a clean kill too, which I was grateful for. A broken neck with minimal blood. I had no problem butchering animals, but didn’t care for carving up already-mangled corpses.

“Good job, Orson! This will last us ‘til dinner too.”

The wolf whuffed and lifted his head proudly. I reached over to scratch the fur under his jaw and he puffed his chest out farther, lifting his snout all the way to the sky to give a short howl.

I laughed and scratched him more aggressively, coming up to the bases of his ears. “Yes, you are a very good boy.”

He suddenly lunged forward and licked my nose. The sudden movement startled me, and I landed on my butt. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting that.”

I went to scratch him again, but the silver wolf backed away with a soft whimper, head and tail low to the ground. Then he turned, bounding through the brush. I sat there confused, wondering if I had done something wrong. I thought I knew werewolf behavior pretty well from living in their territory all my life, but what did I really know about the human-animal brain?

Orson returned to camp a few minutes later, fully dressed in his jeans and T-shirt while I had gotten started on plucking the bird.

“Everything alright?” I asked as he knelt by the fire.

“Yeah, just.” He gave an awkward shrug. “I can’t shift with clothes on, you know. Thought I’d spare you from being scarred for life.”

I knew that. Again, I knew werewolves pretty damn well for not being one. That wasn’t why his wolf had whimpered like he’d been kicked.

I figured it was probably better to let it rest for now, so I returned my attention to pulling feathers. “Thanks again for hunting.”

“My pleasure.” He nodded at the kill. “Need help with that?”

“I got this. You did the hard work already.”

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