Page 5 of Mated
It’s been years since I was this far out. This close to pack land. But Ruin and Lilah needed somewhere far from the hustle and bustle of Lock Lake to crash.
With Cap on the equivalent of a supernatural suspension and Lilah unable to work without wanting to bleed the irate drunks, they can’t afford much.
Offering them the old family camp seemed like a good idea at the time.
But being here is harder than I expected. I have too many memories tied to this fucking land, damn near none of them good, and it’s just bringing all that shit back to the surface.
I pad through the bushes and up to the creek’s edge. Somewhere nearby, a faint trace of leather floats to my nose.
For a moment, I consider changing back. Of asking the Fae Warrior if he ever misses the Sith: his home in Tennessee. But Fae are tight-lipped by nature and I really fucking doubt he wants to talk about the wonderful land of Fairy.
I huff and lean my head down to lap at the water.
My ears flick.
I raise up, scanning the far bank and the distant trees for whatever just disturbed theForce. Even to my enhanced sight, there is nothing but the gentle sway of limbs in the breeze.
The entire point in coming out here was to not deal with Callus and his fucking pack. To stay far from my ancestral home. And yet, the sense of wrongness—ofwaitingwill not fade.
Dropping down into the shallow rock bed, I pad slowly through the cool water and out onto the other bank, fur dripping. Every instinct is heightened, straining to the point of making my heart thud in meaty slaps inside my chest.
I cast along the trodden path of Silver Rock land, noting the empty hollows from the pack’s paws and the distinct musk of shifter. They have been through here recently. And with the full moon in days, it’s not surprising. Game stays close to water, so the best hunting will be this far out. Far from the lodge and the beasts in human guise.
Walking deeper into the shadows of Silver Rock, something echoes in my ears. Faint, almost non-existent. But there.
I turn to the west, following the sound. It grows steadily louder, but as the sound reverberates, the hair raising flavor of raw meat coats my tongue. Aged pennies weave with marsh, tainting the once almost crisp scent of fresh blood.
My body lowers on instinct, preparing for an ambush.
I push through a hedge row at another break in the stream and stop.
Across the bank, huddled in a bloody mess is a thin, athletic woman. Her thick hair is matted, woven with blood, and covering her face. I can’t tell if she is breathing at all. But it’s the pale jaguar lapping at her torn midsection that has me leaping across the stream.
The beast jolts as I slam into it and knock it free of its prey. We roll over the soil and dead leaves. I come up fast, waiting. A low snarl pours from the other cat. It springs.
We collide in a mass of fur and claw. Musk, cat, and something chemical fills my nose. Wrenching sideways, my teeth wind over an extended foreleg. I tear and snap at the thinner bones.
The other cat yowls; the deep rumble echoes along with the frail beat of the woman’s heart.
Alive? How the hell is she still alive?
I swat with my paw, sending the other beast sprawling. Diving to the woman’s ruined side, I shift mid-step.
It hurts, like ripping my human guise from the gut of my beast. “Gage,” I roar, and the sound is filled with the burn in my insides. But I know he will be near enough to hear. “Get Caine, damn it.”
Another low growl spills from the cat. I whirl and drop to the earthen floor on my back as the beast sails for my head. My feet hook into its gut. Thighs bunching, I kick up. It flies overhead, across the bank, and into a cluster of thin trees. The branches crack. It yelps, flips over, and takes off like a fucking bullet.
I hesitate, eyes scanning the brush for Gage. For anyone so I can give chase. There is no one. “God-damn it!”
Glancing down to the near lifeless body of the woman, I try to rationalize what’s left of her.
Claw marks rip through her muscular arms, thighs, and midsection. Her ankle is swollen, purple, and bleeding from a torn shifter bite.
Is that it?
Assessing quickly, I press my hands to her glistening, ruined stomach, trying to hold all the blood—and other stuff inside. “Gage! Damn it—”
“T?”
