Page 13 of Howling
I flick through the different animals I hold, but I ultimately decide to stick to the illusion that I’m a wolf. She’s so slippery that I don’t want her to be aware of my secret, in case she manages to slink away before I can slice her pretty little throat.
My beast snarls at the thought, and I purse my lips at the moody bastard. Once he tastes her blood, he’ll get over his snit. He can’t resist a good bloodbath. Maybe we’ll keep her alive for a while, spread out her death over a few days, payment for the way she’s torturing Tyler.
Claws slice through the tips of my fingers, and tiny drops of blood splatter the ground, my beast ultimately bending to my will. When you’re a shifter, pain is relative when every shift cracks bones and shreds flesh. Not that all shifters have the same experience. For some, the agony is over in seconds, while others have it stretched over fifteen minutes or longer.
Thankfully, I’ve always been an alpha. Most skinwalkers are born that way. It allows us to survive without a pack. Usually, our first shift is at puberty. If we’re lucky, our parents abandonus. If not, we’re sold off for parts to witches and warlocks, our blood and bones used in powerful spells.
When the horrors of my childhood threaten to drag me into the dark recesses of my mind, I don’t even hesitate to slam my claws into my thigh. Pain ripples through my body, stealing my breath, but her hold remains strong. Gritting my teeth, I gouge my claws deeper, slicing flesh until I reach bone.
My muscles loosen so fucking slowly that I feel like I’m moving through quicksand. My focus is on the delicate nape of her neck, my fangs lengthening with the need to sink them into her flesh. As I take a step forward, Tyler relaxes against the floor, a relieved breath escaping him. For a second, I worry he died while I did nothing but watch.
Then I notice the steady rise and fall of his back—hishealedback.
Not a bruise, scar, or cut remains.
Even the wounds Garth inflicted, ones that are resistant to shifter healing and witch’s magic.
Everything is gone.
I’m not even aware of stepping toward them until the girl spins into a crouch, facing me with a tiny dagger in her hand.
I barely resist rolling my eyes.
Like that would stop me.
But I do stop, not wanting to frighten her off. The need to take her blood isn’t gone. In fact, it’s stronger than ever, my beast craving the taste of her. I’m not aware of licking my lips until her eyes narrow, and she slowly rises to her feet, blade in one hand and her backpack in the other.
“Sorry, Foxy, but I’m going to have to take a rain check on that meal. You do sure know how to show a girl a good time, though.” She doesn’t even finish speaking before Tyler reaches out and wraps his hand around her ankle.
“Please…don’t go,” he says hoarsely, his eyes pleading as he gazes up at her. “You saved me twice now. You’re exhausted, and it’s late. The least I can do is feed you. Please.”
I keep my mouth shut, because if there is anyone in our group who can convince her to stay, it would be the sneaky fox—not that he’s skilled with women. No, it’s his sincerity and innocence that gets them…something neither I nor Garth can pull off without looking like we’re passing gas.
She’s a tiny thing for a shifter, barely reaching my shoulders. She’s lean, like she’s missed more than a few meals, and my beast doesn’t like the thought of her leaving without us feeding her.
Her sleek body reveals muscle gained only by hard work, and my hands itch to pull her under me so I can trace every curve. I curl my hands into fists to keep from following through with the impossible impulse, grunting when I forget about my claws and they slice into my palms. When I inch closer, desperate to catch her scent, her attention snaps to me, her knife rising as she falls into a defensive stance.
She’s been trained, and I find it sexy as hell that she can defend herself. My beast is practically salivating to get his paws on her, and it’s all I can do not to provoke her just for the excuse to touch her.
She’s dangerous in a way my brain can’t seem to process.
Her golden eyes shimmer in warning—a hard look that says she’s seen shit, and she’s not afraid to rip out my heart if needed. I can almost admire that. The thought of her trying to kill me has my cock hardening, and I look down at it in disgust.
I’m not a monk, but women are a nuisance.
Fuck them once, and they start demanding things—kiss me, hold my hand, snuggle me.
Shudder.
They plead for money to buy clothes and food, constantly asking if they look pretty, greedy little creatures that will take over every aspect of your life if you let them.
Ugh…they’re exhausting.
I’m not their fucking parent or nanny.
If they want something, they can fucking get it themselves.
Something tells me that this girl is different, and maybe that’s why I have a near impossible urge to see her at least eat before she leaves. My beast hovers right under my skin, studying her almost as hard as I am, and the sensation is uncomfortable. My beast and I are one person. We’ve been together so long that we think the same, feel the same.
