Page 22 of Untamed

Cruel, hungryMactiir, I know he is. I knew it as soon as I spotted him and the others two days ago.

They are blocking my way south. Blocking my route to safety. It isn't safe to travel through the mountains, Mama said. There are males in those mountains that are wild, feral, crazed. They will try to take me. To trap me as I've always been.

Mactiir-the-Brutehas eyes the color of walnuts. I don't like walnuts or the black walnut trees that poison the forest. They have a shell that is toxic and impossibly hard to crack. I always hated picking them up because they stain fingers and the bitter taste lingers on my skin for days. Mama would cook them until the shells softened, and then we would spend hours cracking them open. The soupy water would be turned into an elixir for purifying blood. The rest of the hulls would be mashed into a pulp and squeezed into jars. Father would take them from us. It's to treat indigestion and worms. Because not even gestational worms like walnuts.

I love the taste of the pie Mama would make with the nuts inside.

No, Willa. You do not love Mactiir-the-Brute's walnut-eyes. He's too... tall and... and... muscled. He could gobble Father up in just one bite. Snap, snap, yum.

He'sdangerous. He is Pack. I can tell. He and the others are not supposed to be this close to the mountains. Mama said they stay in the forest valley. That must be far away from here. They shouldn't be here, and theyare. They areeverywhere.

I thought straying towards The Pack was safer, but the male is notsafe. He stares at me with those eyes the color of walnuts. He looks at me the way that the Father would stare at his favorite fish stew.

I wrinkle my nose. Will the male eat me? Is that what he wanted? He looked at me as if he wanted me in his stomach more than any other meal. I shiver. He is too dangerous. He isPack.

Sniffling, I wipe my hand over my nose. Gross, but... well... I'm disgusting right now anyway. I'm on feet, naked, and without even my bag. I've only managed to sneak out of the trees twice for water, and I didn't dare to stay on the ground long enough to hunt. It rained yesterday, and while it made me so unbearably cold, it also hid my scent.

I think my scent is growing stronger. Of course, it's stronger, Willa. You have a foulfetor;stench, odor, smell. I can barely stand the reek of myself.

Mactiir-the-Brute is getting closer and closer and closer to me. Now I know how the fish felt in my trap.

I'm trapped. The noose of my childhood seems pleasant in the face of this fish trap I'm caught in. At least then, I knew the danger I faced. This male is a mystery to me.

I cling to the tree trunk of the big oak, staying as still as possible with the shivers wracking my frame. I can smell the wolf approaching and hear the faint tremble of the roots under the animal's paws. The wolf that slinks from the shadows makes tears prick my eyes.

It's one of The Pack. A russet-brown color, his eyes are searching for me. He's the second wolf I've seen in just moments. They're closing in. Soon, they'll realize I'm up in the trees if they haven't discovered it already.

I lasted four days free. Four.

A high-pitched yipping call from the wolf below me makes me wince. These wolves make a lot of noise, but only when they want to. Growls, barks, howls, all of that noise in an otherwise empty forest. No other sounds can be heard. No little creatures rustling around, no birds singing, not even the squirrels can be seen.

Because those animals know that there are apex predators here, the Pack, damn them.

When Mactiir-the-Brute comes from the trees and shifts back to feet, I press myself against the tree's trunk. I don't want him to see me, but I can't help but look at him. It's as if my eyes can't stop admiring him. My wolf agrees, her eyes fixed on this male with hunger rumbling in her belly.

"Qitsuk," he calls for me, at least I think it's me, in a deep, low voice.

I stop looking at him. I'm not an idiot. If I can see him, he can see me. Pulling away, as silently as possible, I hide in the foliage of the canopy. My body sways in a natural rhythm to match the beat of the oak tree's heart. Hide me, hide me, hide me away.

I feel frustration bubbling, theinjustice; unfairness, outrage. A sense of helplessness rages in me. Why are they chasing me? What have I done?

"Come down, little cat," Mactiir-the-Brute calls for me again.

No, thank you, you cannibalistic demon-wolf. I try to think of something to distract me from the whimpers crawling up my throat.Brute; beast, lout, ogre. Ogres eat small pups in the stories, don't they? I don't feel like being eaten. Although, I smell so badly that maybe he won't eat me, after all.

I hear the tinkling shimmer of something strange, like metal. What is that? The temptation to peek through the leaves nearly overrides my good sense for a moment. The leaves quiver with me. But something tells me that to look now would be incredibly foolish. I canfeelMactiir-the-Brutish-Ogre below me, pacing. Does he know where I am, too?

"Inuit, word from the north..." a voice murmurs. I know him, too. An older male, who scents of my sunshine glade under the full moon. There are a couple of them that smell this way.

Mactiir-the-Brutish-Ogre has friends who play with the stars, just like the stories. How can I ever escape him?

"It's been days, Rhet," Brutish-Ogre replies. His voice sends shivers down my spine, making me clutch the bark harder, claws sinking into the tree.

"The pack needs... ...keep her contained while you..." the male says in a warning tone. I strain to listen, some of their conversations too hard to hear.

"This is my luna," Brutish-Ogre growls. Stupid shivers, my goodness.

"Lyri is still the Luna," the male's voice sharpens, "and you are not the alpha yet, In."

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