Page 4 of Reconditioning the Wolf

Maybe I should try?

Acting on the order of one of the workers, Ishmael began to lift his gun again.

“Sorry, man.”

Ishmael heard the words right before the ring of a gunshot flooded his ear. That was followed by a burst of pain in his arm—the one holding the gun—and the momentum swung him around. Ishmael’s hand slapped into a nearby console, and his fingers twitched, allowing the gun to slip from his fingers.

Oh no.

“Easy!” The handsome man was by his side and gripping his shoulders. “Just lie back.”

His dark eyes appeared so worried... but why? He was a bad guy, right?

“It’s just a flesh wound,” the man told him. Then he frowned and scowled over his shoulder. “It’s just a damn flesh wound. Right, Ryan?”

“Yeah,” the original guy who’d entered with the big-ass rifle claimed. “In and out. Through and through. As soon as you claim the human, he’ll be good as new in no time.”

The handsome man nodded even as he returned his attention to Ishmael. “Hear that?” he crooned, helping him ease to his back. “You’ll be good as new soon enough. You’ll—” The man paused, his hands still on Ishmael’s upper arms as he half levered over him. His nostrils flared. “What the hell?”

Before Ishmael could even hope to understand what the stranger was talking about... at all... he moved a hand to the wound on Ishmael’s arm. He touched his fingertips to it, wiping up some of the blood. To Ishmael’s continued shock, the man lifted it to his mouth, stuck out his tongue, and swiped up the dollop.

“Y-You shouldn’t—” Ishmael began. After all, one of the first rules Doctor Meyer had explained to him was the toxicity of blood.

People should never evereveringest blood.

“Holy shit.” The man sounded shocked, his eyes widening. He glanced around the room before snapping his attention to Ishmael. “Y-Y-You’re one of us?” Shaking his head, he stared at him in disbelief. “Then why are you helping them?”

“What are you talking about, Madagascar?” The guy who’d been holding the rifle on Ishmael appeared next to the handsome guy’s shoulder. “What do you mean byone of us?”

Madagascar glanced over his shoulder at the rifleman. Hell, he couldn’t have been talking about anyone else. Even Ishmael, with his slow brain, realized that.

“He’s a shifter,” Madagascar proclaimed before turning his focus back on Ishmael. “Although I’m not certain what kind.” The man glanced at Simon for a second before once again staring at Ishmael. “Uh, what are you? And why are you helping them?”

Even though Ishmael really liked the way Madagascar was looking at him, as if he were something special—which I’m totally not—he shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gripping his injured arm just under the wound, Ishmael cringed when Madagascar’s brows furrowed, making him look upset. “I’m not a terrorist like you.” Ishmael glanced toward Simon, seeing a look of disgust on his face. “I’m really not.”

Simon sneered and opened his mouth. “You’re such a moron,” he muttered before focusing on the smallest man in the group. “Hey, get away from there.” Simon even began to rise as if to stop him from whatever he was doing at a nearby computer console.

A big redhead grabbed Simon. “Uh-uh,” he stated with a shake of his head. In short order, he flipped Simon around, pulled a pair of cuffs from a pocket, and snapped them around Simon’s wrists.

“You bastards,” Simon roared, wriggling in his grip. “You’re all abominations. We’re gonna wipe all free shifters from the map.” He sounded like he was ranting, but Ishmael didn’t understand what it was about as Simon continued, “The only good shifter is one in a lab, getting used to make humanity better. We’ll—”

“And that’s enough out of you,” the biggest one with a scar grumbled, shoving a gag in Simon’s mouth.

“Let’s get this cleaned up and bandaged, man,” the guy who’d shot him stated, having set his weapon aside. He pulled out some stuff from one of the many pockets in his pants. “Can you watch the door, Sam?”

“We got you covered,” the small one claimed, while pointing to a set of monitors. “I’ll put the corridors leading to here on those.”

“Good, Lamar,” the scarred one—Sam—stated. After a glance toward the man holding him, he returned his focus to the indicated monitors. “You sure, Madagascar?”

The gorgeous man—Madagascar—nodded. “Positive.” He squeezed Ishmael’s hand—the one on his injured arm. “Let go of your arm, my mate. Ryan will get that patched up.”

When did he take my hand?

Even as Ishmael flinched away from Ryan, he nibbled his bottom lip as he nodded. “O-Okay.” It did really hurt, after all. “If this is what getting shot feels like, I’m glad I don’t remember my time in the fire.”

“When were you in a fire?” Madagascar asked softly, drawing Ishmael’s focus away from where Ryan was cutting away the sleeve of his shirt. “Was it recent?”

“D-Did I say that out loud?” Ishmael muttered. When Madagascar nodded, he flinched. “S-Sorry.”

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