Page 84 of Broken Wolf Heart
The only difference now is that I’m saving more than just myself. I’m saving my pack. I promised them I wouldn’t abandon them, and I intend to keep that promise.
I run faster.
At some point, I become aware that I’m not human.
The realization that I’ve shifted into my wolf stops me short. Sensations slam into me then. Four legs. Powerful strides. A snout that can scent anything that moves in my vicinity. Instead of feeling possessed by something “other” like before, I feel as if I’ve just come back into my body after a long time away from it. A ghost returned to corporeal form.
It’s somehow both disturbing and grounding all at once.
My wolf whines at me.
She thinks I’m being dramatic.
I snort at her, and then, I let her run.
She takes off like a whip, trees blurring past. Scents filling our nose. Sound muted, thanks to the wind in my ears.
Moving this way is freeing. Giving over to my wolf, letting her take charge—for the first time since I felt her presence inside me, I welcome her. And some of the overwhelm recedes.
Finally, I near the city and recognize the need to be human again. My wolf argues that point. I think she’d happily walk right into the heart of downtown in her four-legged form without a qualm. But I know better than to draw that kind of attention to myself—especially considering the news report.
After struggling for what feels like an interminable amount of time, I shove my wolf down and shift back to two legs. Then I spend another hour creeping naked through hedges until Imanage to find a towel hanging over someone’s fence and wrap it around myself.
How do shifters manage to stay clothed, anyway?
On the outskirts of downtown, I find a faded, aged thrift store in a small strip shopping center. Forcing my chin up, I walk inside, holding the towel tightly around my body.
The cashier does a double-take.
The two shoppers inside stop and stare at me. One of them drops the macrame dream catcher she’s holding. Her jaw falls open. I step toward the cashier and whisper, “Do you have anything in the back that you’re tossing out? Something I might borrow?”
“You’re…you’re Lexi—I mean High Alpha.”
I wince. “Just Lexi is fine.”
She nods emphatically.
“Um, the clothes,” I begin.
Her eyes widen. “Right. Yes. Come with me.”
She rounds the counter and leads me toward the back, walking on my right to shield me from the shoppers’ nosy view. I keep my head down, letting my long hair fall across my face like a curtain. But not before I see one of the shoppers raise her phone and take a picture of me. Or video. Ugh. So much for anonymity.
I whisper a silent plea that these women are Giovanni pack and not Diavolo.
In the back, the cashier winds past piles of boxes and bins full of people’s donations. She stops at a hanging rack and thumbs through the clothing there.
“Here,” she says, holding out a dress that someone’s grandmother probably wore. It’s not in bad shape though, and I can’t imagine they’re going to throw it out. “This looks like your size.”
“It’s pretty nice. Are you sure you can’t sell it? Don’t you have a trash pile I could?—”
“Absolutely not.” She softens. “No one deserves to wear trash, honey. Least of all you.” She leans in and says, “My cousin’s best friend lives next door to Gina.”
“Gina?”
“Conrad’s wife. Or widow, I should say.”
“Oh.” Conrad. Franco’s general. Or he was before I killed him. Shit. “I’m sorry?—”
