Page 9 of Runt of the Pack
Anya’s eyes narrow, and I can tell she suspects there is more I’m not saying.
“What kind of beast?” she presses with urgency. “Can you describe it?”
I avoid her probing stare, feigning a dazed confusion. “I’m not sure. It happened so fast, and I struck my head in the struggle. I only recall teeth and claws before everything went dark.” I let out a low groan, as if trying to conjure phantom memories.
“Hmm…” Anya murmurs. She leans back in her chair, unconvinced. “Well, I’m sure it will come back to you eventually. The mind has ways of unlocking trauma when it’s ready.”
I nod vaguely, keeping my face carefully blank. I hate deceiving this woman who saved my life. But revealing my true shifter nature could put her in graver danger. Until I recover my strength, secrecy is my best protection for us both.
Anya seems to sense my unease with her continued questions. With a soft sigh, she rises to stoke the dying fire.
“You should rest,” she says gently. “There will be time enough for troubling memories later, once you’ve healed.”
I relax slightly as she turns the subject to my more immediate needs. My identity remains hidden, for now. But her perceptive eyes see more than she admits. I have to be cautious around this woman, or I may reveal more than is wise.
In the dying firelight, something fragile forms between us then—a wordless understanding that requires no further voicing. Two souls, neither whole nor undamaged, finding solace in a kindred spirit. The silence that settles is a comfortable one.
When Anya eventually rises to add a log to the sputtering flames, I do not tense or flinch at her nearness. A curious sensation, trusting one who is still mostly a stranger. But my wolf recognizes her now as more than a mere stranger. Packmate, though no formal oaths bind us. Linked by trauma and circumstance. And in the sharing of our wounds, the first steps towards healing have perhaps begun.
I know not what the next day’s light will reveal about my own path forward. Whether this sheltered cabin will become a way station on my road, or the endpoint of my ruined quest. But here, now, I feel the stirrings of hope within my battered soul. Hope, and the warmth of a hearth’s fire shared with one who understands. It is enough for this night. The rest will come as it always does—one step at a time.
With that consoling thought, I let exhaustion reclaim me at last. Anya’s steady presence remains long after slumber steals my waking mind. And this time, no phantoms haunt my dreams. There is only the comfort of pack, of bones and blood and breath shared. It buoys me through the darkness, allowing me true rest.
8
ANYA
I sink down onto the pile of blankets I’ve laid out on the studio floor, the day’s events racing through my mind. It’s been mere hours since I stumbled upon the mysterious injured man in the snowdrifts—Vladimir, as he gruffly named himself. Yet somehow, helping him has already disrupted the predictable rhythms of my solitary life.
I’d thought myself inured to loneliness after so long apart from any true pack or companionship. But something in Vlad’s stern demeanor calls to me in ways I don’t quite understand. My wolf stirs restlessly, fixated on our unexpected houseguest now resting in my bed. She seems to sense some deeper bond between us that my human half cannot grasp.
With a frustrated sigh, I wrap my arms around myself tightly. This cramped studio holds no hearth, just icy drafts sneaking through warped floorboards. But a chill deeper than the physical cold has worked its way into my bones. Why did I bring this stranger here, into my haven? What fascination made me ignore all caution to save him?
His wounds tell of violence barely survived, hinting at a bloody history. Everything in his manner suggests a dangerous man, hardened and aloof. And yet... the haunted sorrow in his grey eyes when fever claimed him tells another tale. Of tragedies weathered and losses unmourned. It resonated deeply with my own story, in ways I wish it hadn’t.
Some naive impulse had me bare my throat to help him, bringing us closer in vulnerability than I’ve allowed with anyone in years. Just the memory of our conversation now makes my pulse quicken for reasons beyond wariness. Unbidden heat blossoms under my skin despite the frigid air. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my thoughts away from Vladimir’s rugged physique and why it affects me so.
This is madness. I know nothing about him beyond those fleeting glimpses past his defenses. He could be anyone, anything. A wanted man who’s committed unspeakable acts. Even a murderer, wandering these desolate hills. For all I know, he has a mate and a whole litter of pups waiting for his return, while I sit here pathetically craving his attention.
A mirthless laugh escapes my tight throat. Listen to me, mooning over a complete stranger as if I stand a chance with someone like him. He’ll be on his way as soon as he’s recovered enough to travel, disappearing from my life as abruptly as he entered it. Better to keep my distance from the rugged stranger currently sleeping in my bed. Safer for both of us.
Scolding myself for foolish flights of fancy, I burrow deeper into the meager blankets and try to quiet my racing mind. But unconsciousness eludes me for long restless hours as winter’s wind batters the cabin walls. My thoughts churn too violently, replaying my impulsive choice to save Vladimir, to bring him here. Questioning the unexplainable magnetism that holds me rapt.
Eventually, I slip into disjointed dreams haunted by grey eyes and the memory of his harsh panting breaths mingling with mine as we lay face to face in the bloodstained snow. My last fleeting thoughts before sleep claims me are of fierce wolves running together under the moonlight. Of the piercing joy and terror of the hunt. Then blessed darkness drags me under to more pleasant fantasies where a lonely girl is no longer quite so alone.
Morning arrives in a flood of pale light that makes me wince. Every muscle aches from a long night of tossing and turning on unforgiving wooden planks. I force myself upright, shivering in the biting chill that permeates the studio. Tonight, I will be smarter and stoke the stove’s embers to ward off the worst cold. If Vladimir is amenable, perhaps I can even convince him to relocate here while he continues healing. Pride insists I reclaim my bed sooner than later.
First things first, though—I need to check on my unexpected patient. I splash some icy water on my face to banish the last bleariness of broken sleep, then make my way quietly to the bedroom. The door creaks softly as I ease it open, cautiously peering inside.
Vladimir is still deeply unconscious, his big frame barely fitting on my humble bed. But his rest seems peaceful now compared to the earlier delirium. I tiptoe closer, laying a palm on his forehead as I check him over. The fever has broken, leaving only residual warmth and the faintest dewy sweat. He’s past the worst danger now. Relief floods through me—the last thing I need is to have a dead guy in my cabin in the middle of a snowstorm.
Sensing my presence on some instinctive level, Vlad stirs and turns his head towards me. Eyes still shut, he nuzzles into my touch like a contented wolf. My breath catches at the unexpectedly tender gesture. Has he mistaken me in his half-conscious state for someone else he actually knows and trusts? The thought brings an odd tightness to my chest.
I start to withdraw my hand, but Vladimir’s own comes up to capture it before I can pull away. His thickly callused fingers engulf mine as he holds me there a moment longer, the contact sending an electric spark arcing through my skin. I freeze, stunned by the intensity of sensation from such an innocent touch. Eyes still closed, he inhales deeply as though fixing my scent to memory.
Oh, sweet Moon Goddess… Fuck!
“Stay...” he rasps, voice slurred by sleep. He tugs gently, coaxing me down to perch on the bed’s edge. Dumbstruck, I let him draw me closer as his breathing evens out again. Soon, his grip on my hand goes lax. But I find myself unable to break free, unwilling to disturb this unexpected intimacy.
