Page 4 of Claimed

As the wordsfull mooncome out of his mouth, they warp as his face begins to change shape, lengthen, and become furry. No matter how many times I see this happen, it’s always incredible. It happens quickly, but dramatically.

One moment the big, tattooed guy is holding us in thrall, the next there’s a massive wolf in the middle of the circle, surrounded by almost a dozen others. A couple of the other girls and I haven’t been able to shift because we haven’t met our mates yet. Female shifters don’t actually shift until their fated mate finds them.

The pack of wolves circles in the middle of the barn for a moment, some of the subordinate wolves licking at Trent’s face. There’s a lot of whining and excitement.

Trent allows it for a moment or two, then turns tail and heads out of the barn at full speed, the pack streaming out behind him in an incredible display of animal alacrity.

I’m so deeply jealous. I wish I could do that. I wish I didn’t have to wait for some fated mate’s magic cock to unlock my ability to shift. It’s so unfair, but it’s the way it works for whatever stupid reason. Some people say it’s because it protects us from being discovered by normal men, keeps our true natures and identities from being known. Males start being able to shift around thirteen, but they often end up outcast.

It feels like I’m never going to shift. Sometimes I wonder if I actually have it in me, or if they were just kind enough to takeme in. It’s quiet in the barn now. The others and I pick up the red Solo cups and pick at the remnants of what’s left from the barbecue. The pack will hunt tonight. They’ll take down a deer, they’ll feed, and they’ll come back and pass out in a big naked pile.

I guess I might as well go to bed.

Everybody sleeps up in the hayloft when they stay here. I bought a sleeping bag, because being pricked by the bits of hay all over doesn’t feel great. Even with the bag I’m probably going to have lots of little pricks and bites. Worth it.

This is real freedom, I tell myself as I start cleaning up. For some reason, my mom comes to mind again. I keep thinking of her tonight. I wonder why. It almost makes me want to go and call her now, but I don’t have reception out here. I’d have to get a ride into the nearest town to get cell service again.

Maybe she wouldn’t be mad about this. She was always hovering when I was growing up, because she grew up as an orphan and it made her super protective of me. But I think she knew I had to get out on my own, and even though this isn’t the education I was supposed to be getting, it’s still an education. Every day brings some new revelation. I’ve found that I make friends kind of easily, and that people like me for who I am. When you’ve spent a lifetime trying to fit in, doing your best to pretend to be normal, it’s a relief to find out that maybe none of that was ever necessary.

My mom might lose her mind if she knew I was asleep in the loft of an old hay barn with a bunch of shifter strangers, or maybe she’d be proud that she produced someone who can handle herself in a place like this. I’m stronger than I thought. I’m moreadaptable than I thought. And I’m going to survive no matter what.

Creeeeaakkkkk.

My eyes are closing when the sound of one of the barn doors opening downstairs makes them fly open. The other girls are asleep already. We’re camped out around the loft in various places, each according to where we are most comfortable.

The pack hasn’t gotten back yet. They wouldn’t come back in a creaking, creeping way. They’d return with full noise. I feel as though someone is in the barn with us, but I can’t see down off the loft and something in my body tells me not to move.

Everyone else is asleep, I think. They don’t stir. I don’t make the mistake of making myself stand out. I stay very, very still, I hardly breathe, and I keep my ears pricked. There are footsteps down there for sure. Someone is in the barn with us. Someone who isn’t part of the pack. Someone who doesn’t belong.

I suddenly realize I have no way of defending myself. I don’t have any weapons. The pack doesn’t really need them. Suddenly, I wish they’d left a guard or two to stay back with us. There’s nobody here.

It’s with real relief that I hear the footsteps retreat and the door creak a little as it’s returned to the closed position. I stay alert for as long as I can, but in the end I fall asleep in fitful spurts and starts, only waking up when the pack returns around daybreak. They collapse downstairs, and I finally feel safe enough to actually sleep.

I wake up late in the afternoon, to a breakfast of beer and cigarette smoke.

I don’t mention the intruder in the night. I’m not even certain it really happened anymore.

Everybody is chill today, lying out on the grass outside the barn relaxing in the sun and drinking. A few couples sneak off into the bushes, or back into the barn to mate. Sex isn’t a big deal here, but it always happens in mated pairs. That’s just how we are.

A car stops on the road up from the hill. It’s probably about a mile away, but we all notice it. Nobody stops up there unless they’re cops looking for someone. The guys like to get in trouble from time to time, as do some of the girls. So it’s not completely rare that the police do come. It’s just also never good news.

The guys on the outside of the gathering perk up. They’re not officially on watch, but they’re alsonot, not on watch, if that makes sense. The pack always hangs out in a way that seems chill and disorganized, but has a definite order to it. Single females, like me, tend to be in the middle and at the back. The single males are on the outskirts, with the mated males and their mates on the inside of them, then the alpha at the center with his closest boys.

Trent gets up, lazily, but with intention. He stretches and moves toward the road. There’s an incline he has to go up, which is always a slight problem. I know he’d like to move us all somewhere where there’s higher ground, but we’ve got the barn to stay in for free-ninety-nine, and that’s an attractive price for all of us.

A few of the guys and girls make themselves scarce, using the barn as visual cover as they slink off into the shadows.

A tall man is coming down the hill toward Trent. He’s wearing a long black overcoat and has thick dark hair that flows down over his head in a mane. He looks older. Not old, but definitely old-er. Maybe forty or something. He looks powerful and rich. He doesn’t look like he belongs out here in the middle of nowhere. I can see silver rings flashing on his hands from a distance. This guy is money and danger.

Something about him makes my stomach do a twisty flip, like I’m in trouble. I have no idea why I’m having that reaction, but it is immediate and definite and primal.

I find myself slipping back through the pack just like the others who thought someone was coming for them did.

“I am looking for Anya.”

I hear him say my name in a thick Russian accent. My heart skips a beat, then starts to race. He has the same accent as my mother. Part of me wants to go toward him, but another part of me is suddenly absolutely drowning in guilt. Did she get so worried about not hearing from me that she sent some guy after me? And now he’s found me here? Nowhere near my college? Fuck. Oh, fucking hell. She’s going to be so disappointed in me.

“Nobody called Anya here,” Trent lies smoothly.

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