Page 28 of Protected By Her Mate

But he does seem to have a thing for me.

I pull my keys out of my purse and use the fob to unlock the truck, then tuck the pointy end of a key between my fingers. If there’s someone with ill intentions toward me in this garage, they’re gonna lose an eyeball.

Trying to keep my back to the wall, I edge toward the truck feeling both freaked out and ridiculous. I slide my fingers into the doorhandle, still sweeping the shadows of the garage with sharp eyes. Nothing moves, so I yank open the door preparing to leap inside and lock it quickly, but before I can climb in, something tumbles out, landing at my feet.

An involuntary scream erupts from my throat and I throw myself away from the truck. My foot catches and I hit the ground hard.

“Ouch!” I gasp, my hand scraping on the pavement. Cradling it, I seek out the bundle on the cement.

A person.

There’s a person on the ground next to my truck.

What the fuck!?

I scramble backwards, crab-walking until there’s a good several feet between us. I wait, my heart thumping, blood rushing in my ears, watching for the person to move.

I quickly realize they can’t move because they’re dead.

Lying on their side, face toward me, I can see the grey pallor of their skin and the cloudy eyes staring sightlessly. Though I’m overwhelmed by fear, my training kicks in and I slide back toward the body.

Helplessly, I stare down into their eyes as I press my fingers against the pulse point in their throat. Nothing. Definitely dead. Probably don’t need to check again. Almost of its own volition, my hand reaches for the wrist, checking for a pulse. Nope, still dead.

I drop the wrist and propel myself to my feet. “Help!” I shout, the echo bouncing around the garage. “I need some help over here!”

When there’s no response, I force myself to take a deep breath and think. I almost always have a brain in my head, and I frequently use it for thinking. Now should be no different. Just because dead people freak the fuck out of me doesn’t mean my good sense needs to leave the building.

I sidle around the body, my gaze still sweeping the garage in case whoever killed the person is still around. My hand is slippery with sweat and I have to wipe it down my jeans before I can grip my radio. “Dispatch. This is Investigator Lopez. I need an ambulance and… po...” No, not police, just Lennox, and if I ask for police, this case could be scooped up by another detective. I have to assume the dead person in my truck didn’t get there by accident, which means I’m being targeted. “Just an ambulance, please.”

“This is Judy from dispatch. Are you injured?” I can hear the concern in Judy’s voice and while I appreciate her worry for me, fewer questions would be better.

“Not me,” I say shortly. I give her the address and floor of the parking garage. Putting the radio down, I drag my phone from my pocket. Lennox picks up immediately and hearing his deep voice sends a surge of calm through me. “Lennox, we have a problem.”

LENNOX

I’m carrying my lunch, crossing the street with a few dozen other New Yorkers and a handful of tourists when I’m stopped cold. It feels like an invisible force gripping me, holding me in place. Someone runs into my back, stumbles and swears at me before moving on. I barely register them.

What’s happening? Panic is rising inside me, but I’m not a panicky person. Not unless Charlie… fuck. I reach out to her through our connection, which thankfully grew stronger after our kiss.

I can’t see clearly through her eyes, but I can feel the hammering of her heart, the rapid, shallow breaths she’s taking, the rush of blood through her veins. My mate is under attack.

A car horn blares at me. I’m alone in the street now, trying to shake off this frozen state so I can get to my mate’s side in the shortest time possible. Something has happened to her.

Another car horn, but I’m beyond caring. I drop my lunch and start sprinting, trusting my wolf to take us to her side.

Faster, faster, run faster.

My wolf wants me to shift, but it’s the middle of the day and the sidewalk is crowded. Besides, she’s not far. Only half a dozen blocks if she’s still at the courthouse.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I know it’s her without checking. I feel the panic in her brain as she reaches out for me subconsciously through our mate connection and consciously through the phone.

Without slowing, I answer. “Charlie.”

“We have a problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

“She’s dead,” she moans.

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