Page 8 of Moon Destiny

But she wasn’t saying anything, either, and that could indicate shock. Most turned humans consented to being bitten. They went into the process of becoming a werewolf fully aware of the risks, including the possibility of death. The Council had to approve the bite, and the whole thing was done with medical support and a lot of preparation.

But Brooke had been attacked. She knew nothing of the world she’d been plunged into. Her injuries had healed when she came through the fever. Her body was strong—stronger than it had ever been when she was human.

Now I had to hope her mind was strong, too.

“I’m going to pass out now,” she said under her breath. She braced herself, as if she waited to lose consciousness. When she didn’t, her forehead furrowed, and she looked so perturbed I might have smiled if I’d been in human form.

I turned and padded to the clothes I’d left at the foot of the bed. It was slow going reversing the shift. Between nursing her through the fever and making arrangements for Alex’s funeral, I hadn’t been eating enough. That was one of many things I was going to have to discuss with Brooke. Werewolf metabolism was demanding, especially in new wolves.

When I finished the shift, I dressed and went into the bathroom, where I grabbed one of the water bottles I’d arranged on the counter. As I carried it back to the bed, her gaze latched onto it. “I’ll give you this after I untie you,” I told her.

She nodded eagerly.

Another good sign. Her mind was tracking, and her heart rate was steady. She held still while I worked on the knots binding her wrists to the headboard.

“Lower your arms slowly,” I murmured as I moved to her ankles. “You’ve been here for three days. You’re going to be sore.”

Her gasp made me look up, and her blue eyes were full of something akin to horror as she pulled her arms down. “You tied me up for three days?”

I finished with her ankles and sat in the chair. “I had to. The moon fever is hell on the human body. You would have clawed your skin off if you hadn’t been restrained. Few humans make the transition, and females almost never. You’re fortunate.”

She sat up, her movements stiff, and rubbed at her wrists. Her ponytail had slipped out during the worst of her thrashing, and her blond hair fell in a wild riot over her shoulders and down her breasts. Her tank top, which had probably been a khaki green when she put it on, was stained rusty brown with old blood. She brushed a hand over the front of her neck, feeling the smooth skin there before lifting a bewildered gaze to mine. “I was dying. I remember it now. My throat was…gone.”

“Yes.” I handed her the water bottle.

She twisted the cap off with shaking hands and drank, her head tipped back and her throat working. Her eyes slid closed and she let out a satisfied moan.

“Slow down,” I said, my voice sharper than I’d intended. When she lowered the bottle with a startled look, I stood and went to the window.

But putting distance between us didn’t help. Her scent followed me. Even after three days of fever, her essence beckoned. Vanilla and orange blossoms flooded my senses, and I stared sightlessly out the window as I struggled not to respond. But it was no use. My groin tightened, my cock throbbing with need.

For her.

Anger rose hot and swift. Leave it to fate to play its twisted games with me. My one true mate—the female I was supposed to cherish above all others—was my dead son’s girlfriend.

What the fuck was I supposed to do now?

It was a slap in the face after losing Alex. But there was no denying the connection between Brooke and me. The recognition I’d tasted in her blood had come roaring back when she was deep in the throes of her fever.

And it was stronger now. I rubbed a hand over my face. It was like I’d been plunged into a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

Her silence was a palpable presence at my back. None of this was her fault. I had to remember that.

I spoke without turning around. “You need to take things slowly. If you drink too fast you’ll make yourself sick.”

“I know,” she said, and her voice had lost some of its raspiness. “I saw that on a survival show once.” She huffed a humorless laugh. “Never thought I’d actually need that advice.” She was quiet a moment. Then she spoke again, her words halting. “The wolf—werewolf—that attacked me. It made me…one of you?” Her voice faltered on the last, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was saying.

I owed her answers, but I couldn’t give them halfway across the room. The things I needed to tell her required eye contact, so I stuffed down the desire as far as I could and returned to the chair.

She watched warily as I sat, as if she sensed she wasn’t going to like what I had to say.

“You’re not quite like me. Most werewolves are born, not made. But humans can turn from a werewolf’s bite. It’s rare but it happens. Turned wolves are slower and weaker, although there are certainly some dominant wolves who buck that stereotype. The wolf from the Gorge didn’t want to turn you. He used his claws, which means he wanted you dead. My men and I found you and I bit you to save your life. That makes me your sire as well as your alpha.”

And something else I didn’t want to acknowledge at the moment.

The frown reappeared between her blue eyes. They were wells of color, the irises a deep sapphire with a navy ring around the outside. “What do you mean by”—she swallowed—“alpha?”

I tore my gaze from her face, and I could hear the gravel in my voice as I said, “We have a connection because I turned you. And you’re now part of my pack. There are rules in our world, Brooke, and it might be difficult for you to get used to them. Every pack has a hierarchy. The alpha—the strongest and most dominant wolf—sits at the top.”

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