Page 2 of Hunted Mate
I have a memory of her smiling, her hair blowing in her face as we hot-air ballooned over the Mojave. My parents were always taking me on the most adventurous vacations. When I was small, I used to think they were invincible. Actually, I thought we were all invincible. Life has taught me otherwise.
If I came in here, dressed up, made up, looking like a force of intellectual nature, I’d feel like I was a little kid in my mom’s shoes. She was the heiress to the Hart fortune before me, and she did so much good in the world. My father was always by her side, protecting her, looking after her, making sure she ate. Making sure we both ate, actually. Since I lost them, I’ve been okay, but not really good.
I tell myself that the basement is better than any other location in the building. I could have the big top floor office if I wanted, but that’s for the boss, and I’m not one for running things. I like the freedom to make my own choices, and you can’t do that when you’re in a giant fishbowl. Gray can keep his office. I have my den.
I push down the first flight of stairs, then through another door that leads to my area specifically. The big office at the top of the building has nothing on the spaciousness I’ve got underground. There is so much room for activities.
I have boxes and boxes of files stacked all around the room. A lot of them come from other people who were looking into stories about werewolves and who gave up, or were shamed into doing so. I am well aware that trying to prove the existence of wolf-shifting people puts me in the same camp as people looking forBigfoot or wanting to have sex with Moth Man. Both respectable points of view as far as I’m concerned. Just because something is weird doesn’t mean it is wrong.
My shoulder twinges under the weight of the boxes I’m carrying down to join their kin. I’m not really supposed to lift heavy weights. No more than fifty pounds, the physiotherapist says. I’ve been doing my exercises religiously for years, but the injury that weakened my shoulder never seems to heal internally. She used to think I was lying when I told her I was doing my rehab exercises. Maybe she still does. Ultrasounds reveal I have deep tissue damage that just doesn’t want to heal.
This might make it worse for a few days, but it’s worth it. I am assembling a true mountain of evidence to prove that there really are wolf shifters in this world. They’re not legends, they’re not stories made up by drunk people, they’re not part of some made-up mythology. They’re as real as every other unavoidable thing in this world, like microwaves and taxes.
It sounds crazy, but when you really look into it, there is plenty of evidence to suggest that there really are wolf shifters, which has all kinds of implications. An entire society of people who are also animals, who must entertain the instincts and impulses of beasts while still somehow fitting into human society—or not.
It is my theory, backed by my research, that wolf shifters used to live in remote tribal areas, but over time, as habitat loss affected all species, many of them have made their way into mainstream society.
I put the boxes down and pick up the files on the top. These are clippings and eyewitness testimonies from a whole slew of people who are certain they’ve interacted with wolf shifters in the last five years. It would be better to make contact withan actual shifter. My research indicates I’ve probably done so several times and not had any idea.
I open the first file and start reading the notes as I walk, passing big stacks of boxes, all of which contain precious hardcopies of the kind of intelligence needed to prove this sort of theory.
I walk face first into a wall that wasn’t there this morning, drop my file, and bump my nose.
“Ow.”
Big hands steady me and stop me from tripping over backwards.
I look up to discover that there’s a man in my underground office. He’s tall, well over six feet, and he’s wearing a wolf mask. His arms are bare because he’s also wearing a vest. There are sleeve tattoos down each of his overly muscular arms. I can’t see what they depict, exactly, from this distance. I know instinctively that he’s hot. He has the broad shoulders, narrow hips, and the kind of physique that implies chiseled everything.
“Uh, hello?” I stumble back, dip down, pick up my file and put a little distance between us. I am deeply embarrassed. I hate seeming clumsy. I hate making mistakes.
He doesn’t say anything.
“What do you want? Nobody is supposed to come down here.” My question comes out bluntly and rudely. “That’s why there’s a lock on the door.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me from behind the mask. He has ice-blue eyes under there, regarding me with an unwavering stare. He folds his arms over his chest, making tattoos ripple with the motion. I see fangs, I see fur. I feel a jolt of some dark energy that scares me into taking another two steps back.
I tell myself this is some kind of shitty prank. The other journalists don’t take me seriously. They’re always fucking with me. Last week someone left their husky in here, then told me that they’d gotten me an interview with a real life wolf shifter. I pretended to laugh, but underneath it all I was humiliated. One day, I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.
“I really don’t have time for this today,” I say.
“You’ll make time.”
I don’t recognize his voice, but that’s probably because it’s muffled by the mask.
“I have a lot of work to do, and this isn’t funny. It’s actually starting to become harassment. Don’t think I won’t go to HR.”
He chuckles, a deep, rich, masculine sound. “I don’t answer to HR.”
The hair on the back of my neck is starting to stand up. There’s something uncanny about this man. He doesn’t belong here. He’s not built like an office worker. Not even one who goes to the gym all the time. He’s got the kind of muscle you see in people who spend a lot of time outside. The skin under his tattoos is deeply tan, and what I can see of his hands indicates roughness. Short, unmanicured nails.
I sigh and put my files down on my desk.
“So what’s this about?”
“It’s about you, and this shrine to the unforgivable.”
“Unforgivable?”
