Page 1 of Twist of Fated Mates
Chapter One
Nigel
I wipethe blood from my lips with the back of my hand and frown. It’s sticky and black under the moonless night sky. Will I ever get used to this?
Perhaps it’s best if I don’t.
Certain acts exist that no person ought to get used to.
The dying boar heaves its last few breaths. Its flesh will make a meal for scavengers less timid than I, less appalled by the savagery, less hampered by disgust.
It’s one thing to kill in my wolf form, and a far cry from that natural experience to kill as a man. To soil my lips and hands with the blood of animals. But better than the alternative. At least this way, people remain safe from the cursed thirst that gnaws at my belly and tugs at my veins until the wee hours of the morning.
Cold air on colder skin elicits a shiver, though temperature, no matter how extreme, can’t harm me anymore. Not since the attack.
With the gruesome task of feeding done with, I’m free to roam the forest in search of the scent I caught a few nights ago. A sweet aroma, like nothing I’ve ever smelled before—evocative, light floral notes warmed by a deep woodsy aroma. Like a meadow after a fresh spring rain. Though I only caught a fleeting whiff, the memory curls like a vine, urging me to seek out more.
Towns and villages are dangerous for me. Perhaps more accurately, I’m dangerous for them. Normally, I’d avoid signs of people at all costs, but the scent beckons like a lullaby humming on the breeze. So rich I taste it on my tongue with each drawn breath.
If I can just find the source, fulfill my curiosity, that will be enough. Or so I tell myself. I’ve gorged on the blood of animals. I don’t need more. I can afford a brief jaunt into a small tavern to slake the desire to identify the sweet, delicious smell. No big deal.
As I enter, bells tinkle overhead. Some heads turn. Some don’t.
Nothing bad happens.
A scan of establishment reveals a well-kept tavern, wooden everything: floors, walls, rafters, tables, and bar.
The wispy remnants of the scent lures me forward.
Apprehensive, I make my way to the bar and claim a stool.
“What’ll you have?” asks the man behind the counter. A werewolf. Most of the folks here are.
“Hot cider.”
“Coming right up.”
Someone slams a mug down. I startle.
Nothing bad happens.
My stomach churns, blood gurgling as nerves begin to overtake me. I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. I don’t know this pack. They don’t know me. And I haven’t bothered with the proper permissions and introductions to be here.
The barkeep returns and offers a smile I don’t deserve along with my cider, then goes about his business.
Nothing bad happens.
Perhaps I can relax a bit after all.
A mug of liquid heaven steams in front of me—heaven I can no longer drink—but I wrap my icy palms around it anyway, leeching its heat for myself.
The door chimes jingle, announcing a new arrival.
The scent hits before I can turn my head. I shutter the wave of excitement that threatens to perk my hopes up, but that soulful perfume! It’s so loud, screaming for me to pay attention.
My intuition must be wrong. I can’t have this now, not after everything. I’m ruined. It’s not fair.
Carefully, I deaden my expression, swallow the dream that cannot be, and take a peek.
