Page 23 of Untamed

"She is myLuna," Ogre says. My knees weaken a little. What is wrong with me? Withus, I amend, when I realize that my wolf is panting hard, her belly blown out with air, eyes fixed in the distance towards the males.

"She's a wild she-wolf, not a pet," another voice snaps out. I recognize this voice, too. Another sky-male and entirely too big, like a fat bear in late summer.

Ogre growls. I almost fall out of my tree. I do shake the limb I'm leaning on. All of the males below me fall silent. I can't believe I made that noise.Bungler; clumsy, klutz, fool, clod, dolt.Stupid, weak female.Just like Father always said.

"Qitsuk," Ogre calls, a low rumble that rattles my she-wolf. I rub my hand over my chest. It hurts a little. "Come down, pretty cat."

No! I scold my she-wolf when she wants to take a step down and peer through the leaves at those walnut-eyes. Goddess, have a little self-preservation, I think to myself. Bad enough that this beast has The Pack searching for me.

"Help me," I mouth. Squeezing my eyes shut, I picture the trees in my mind, the river behind me by a half-mile, the rocky shore dotted with roaming wolves, the bees nest in the trunk of the dying beech tree nearby.

I hold my breath. A nest... maybe I can use it to distract Mactiir from his quest? It's simple enough to travel through the trees to the beech. The canopy of the forest spreads in an interlocking web of life. I map out my path in my mind and let my feet follow.

"She's on the move," I hear from below.

"Qitsuk, you can't evade us, love," Ogre croons.

I wrinkle my nose at him, even if he can't see me. I pause and wait for the wind to pick up, for the rustle of the leaves to hide my movement.

The bees are industrious this time of year. I'm lucky, they aren't quite in their grumpy state of early fall, but they're also not in their frantic activity of spring, either.

I use a small branch to poke the nest at the top until it breaks free. It hits the ground, and the buzzing of a thousand angry bees fills the air.

"Fuck!" I hear from below. Other curses ring through the air. Perfect.

I hear pounding feet, intelligible shouts, angry voices, all that fade as I race through the canopy, back toward the river. Near the shore, the trees thin out, but it's not a problem. I plan on going across the river. I'll take my chances with the mountain wolves, crazy as they are.

I can't hear any thundering paws behind me when I descend from the tree canopy. Thank the goddess I've lost them.

Only when my bare feet brush the ground, do I realize that I can't hearanything. The forest is silent again.

I run. Without looking behind me, without stopping, I just run. He's right behind me. I don't have to see him to know. I can feel him.

The colossal beast tackles me to the ground. I gasp, inhaling a mouthful of dirt and twigs. The dark shadow moves over me, biting the back of my neck and holding me in place as if I'm just a pup. I squeeze my eyes shut. My growl mixes with a whine, a shrill sound that makes him return my plea with a warning of his own. His growls rumble deep in his chest. My she-wolf snarls back, refusing to back down even when my throat is held between his teeth.

I wait for the teeth to sink in, to rip my throat of life right out. Father's words dance through my head;foolish pup, stupid female, useless, dumb.

Instead of teeth, I feel hands touching me, sending tingles of awareness and fear ghosting over my skin. I want to scream, to lash out in a fury. The odd sensation of being touched by someone other than Mama makes me panic. Even Father barely touched me, and it was usually with violence when he did. These hands are just as calloused, just as big, maybe bigger, but he touches me the way Mama did.

Fingers skim over my arms. Then I feel the chilly sensation of metal on my wrists. Gasping, my eyes fly open. Golden bracelets with chains are hooked on my wrists. Whimpering, I tug, but they don't relent. I can't take them off.

"Clothes," Brute growls.

I am brought to my feet. A long cloth is wrapped around me. A fist wraps in my hair, bringing my face around. I stare into walnut-eyes. I feel my she-wolf go still. Who is he? ThisMactiir-wolf?

"Bliss," he rumbles softly, walnut-eyes traveling over my face. In an-almost a whisper. "This is bliss."

Bliss; euphoria, happiness, joy.

I think he may be crazy.

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8 - The Post

Inuit

She bites me when I try to pick her up. Golden eyes narrowed on me; she snaps her teeth at my hands, my arms, my face, all while glowering at me hotly.

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