by Amy Pennza
But he wasn’t that kind of wolf. Like her, he was a Finder, and he was built for speed, not stealth.
It was an effort for him to move like he did, but he made it because he liked to scare her.
He wanted her to drift off, exhausted from waiting, and then wake to his breath in her face and the weight of his body on hers.
That was the worst part, when he covered her and pushed her down, down into the mattress, his knee between her thighs.
“Give me what I want, Sophie girl,” he’d whisper in her ear, his breath hot on her temple. “Give me what I want, and this can all go away.”
Lie. The scent of it—the rotten egg of battery acid—curled under her nose. Giving in wouldn’t make him stop.
It would just tie him to her forever.
She stared at the narrow strip of light under the door until her eyes burned. Her heart pounded in her ears, and sweat prickled her upper lip. She curled her fingers around the edge of the pillow, squeezing until her hand ached.
In the hall outside, a floorboard creaked.
Sophie jerked awake, her mouth open as harsh pants shook her whole body. Her tail was tucked hard between her legs.
The dream again.
Disorientation swept her. Waking in one form after dreaming in another was like the morning after a hangover—or at least that’s what she assumed after hearing humans describe the rolling, dizzying sensations. It happened to all wolves on occasion—something they called a “pinch.” The disconnection wasn’t really painful. It was more of a discomfort, like trying to move a limb that’s fallen asleep. The best way to fix it was to change shape as quickly as possible. She closed her eyes and let the Turn take her.
As a Finder, her transformations were faster than those of most wolves. There was no gruesome rearrangement of limbs or snapping tendons. The change washed over her like a warm current, its heat rippling from her toes to her face. Fur receded, its departure like goosebumps in reverse. Her legs stretched and lengthened. Claws retracted and reformed into human nails. As her jawbone reshaped itself, she opened her eyes and stared at the beamed ceiling.
An unfamiliar ceiling.
Panic fluttered in her chest. She sat up, and a thin sheet fell to her lap. Unfamiliar ceiling. Unfamiliar bed.
Where the hell was she?
She tugged the sheet to her chin and looked around the room. Sunlight poured through a pair of large windows, throwing buttery-yellow squares on the walls.
Make that log walls. An absurd thought that this was her first time in a log cabin shot through her head.
Way to manage a crisis. In her situation, most people would already be searching for a way out. Yet here she was, admiring a new form of architecture. She pulled the sheet higher—
—and was hit with the scent of lemon and peppermint.
Remy.
She lifted the sheet to her nose and inhaled, pulling him into her lungs. Instantly, a rush of memories pummeled her, flicking through her mind like a movie in fast forward—the truck smashing into her…running through the forest while blood soaked her side…staring into Remy’s eyes as he held her at the edge of the forest…the rumble of a powerful engine and the sensation of speed…a gentle hand stroking the fur around her head.
Fur… She’d been too injured and exhausted to Turn. He must have settled her in the bed in wolf form.
Relief pounded through her.
She dropped the sheet and twisted so she could examine her right hip. There was no blood, which meant Remy must have washed it off.
Her belly fluttered, and warmth flooded her cheeks. She pressed a hand against her midsection and shook her head. Just exactly how hopeless was she, anyway? He’d treated her injuries. That didn’t mean he wanted to take her to dinner. Clearly, blood loss had affected her reasoning capabilities. She blew out a breath and looked at her side again.
The skin was whole, but it was a rather impressive array of black, blue, and green. The truck had flung her into a cluster of bushes, which had been a stroke of good fortune. If she’d hit a tree, she might not be alive. The impact had knocked her out, but only for a few minutes. When she regained consciousness, she heard the truck driver and the teens from the bait shop searching for her. The bushes had broken her fall and then hid her long enough to escape the humans’ notice.
By the time they walked back to Bud’s and called the police, she was gone.
She had no idea how long she ran between the store and the tree line where Remy found her, but it had felt like an eternity. The truck’s front bumper had opened a gash on her hip, which had pumped blood with every heartbeat, leaving a convenient trail for Asher and his wolves. She ran at top speed, never slowing even as low-hanging branches whipped across her legs. She drew on every last inch of her Gift, knowing the price she’d pay if Asher found her.
But Remy found her first. By some miracle, she must have made it to the New York border. She had no idea how he tracked her down, but he had.
And he’d brought her to his home—or at least a place he stayed often.
She took another whiff of his scent and gazed around the room. For a bachelor, he had fantastic taste. In her mind, “log cabin” meant stuffed deer heads and plaid bedspreads, but this was altogether different. Bright, modern artwork hung on the walls, and a sleek leather chair with button tufted detailing sat in the corner. An elegant dresser dominated the far wall.
The space was beautiful, but it had the unmistakable feel of a spare bedroom. There were no personal items—no picture frames or stray possessions—that indicated frequent use. She ran a hand down the plush, white comforter, the unmistakable rustle of goose feathers filling the air.
What kind of man put a down comforter in his guest room? Or even knew they existed?
The kind of man who never sleeps alone. She swallowed, the pleasure she’d taken in the inviting room evaporating.
If the rumors about Remy were true, he probably wasn’t single. Her stomach clenched. What if his girlfriend lived here? She might be somewhere in the cabin. What would she think about her man bringing home a near-stranger he found in the forest?
Sophie shoved the thoughts away. She had to stop obsessing over him.
As for his finding her in the forest…well, he was a Hunter. If the New York Hunters were anything like her father’s, they patrolled the pack’s borders all the time.
The thought of her father made her pulse spike. Enough daydreaming. She might be out of immediate danger, but she had a long way to go before she was truly safe.
The first step was finding something to wear. She slid from the bed. As soon as her feet hit the floor, fiery pain shot from her ankle to her hip. Nausea followed in its wake, making her stomach pitch.
A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she leaned against the bed as her mouth filled with saliva. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t quite recovered yet.
After a minute, the pain faded to a dull throb. She let go of the bed and tested her weight on her injured leg. It hurt like a bitch, but nothing was broken—or at least nothing had healed out of place. More than once, she’d seen a Healer forced to re-break a Hunter’s bones after they knitted the wrong way. Sometimes werewolf regeneration was a curse.
When she trusted her leg not to give out, she limped toward the dresser. As she went, her gaze snagged on the small chair next to it.
Clothes.
She hadn’t been able to see them from the bed. It was slow going, but she made it to the chair and leaned against the dresser.
There was no mirror, thank goodness. She didn’t want to know what she looked like right now. A note perched on top of the clothes, and she picked it up.
Hope these work. Make yourself at home. I’m downstairs. — Remy.
Like everything else about him, his handwriting was bold and compelling—a masculine scrawl with a prominent forward slant. She rubbed her thumb over the words. Lemon tickled her nose. Almost unconsciously, she drew the scent deeper into her lungs. He was everywhere.
He was downstairs.
The thought was like a needle scratch on a record. He was downstairs, and here she was standing stark naked in his guest room.
She tossed the note on the dresser and grabbed the clothes. He’d left her plain gray sweats and a large, white T-shirt—standard stuff for werewolves. Every wolf she knew kept a few stashes of unisex clothing around for unexpected Turns and outfit mishaps. Transforming from skin to fur caused its fair share of wardrobe malfunctions.
The sweats were snug around her hips, but the length was good. If anything, they were a little too long.
“That’s a first,” she said under her breath, rolling the waistband over a couple of times.
The T-shirt was next, and she bit her lip as she held it up. Why did he have to give her a white one? She looked down at her chest. A few years earlier, for her twenty-first birthday, her mom treated her to a shopping spree at the local mall. Like most female wolves, Constance Gregory was tall and willowy, with lean muscles and minimal curves. She dragged Sophie into a lingerie store with pink walls and racks of frilly bras that looked sized for Barbie dolls. The sales associate took one look at Sophie’s chest and directed them to a bin in the back of the store. The scant selection of utilitarian bras were a far cry from the dainty, lace-covered options in the front.
Sophie studied the shirt. She hadn’t gone without a bra since third grade. Wearing this was going to make her look like a competitor in a wet T-shirt contest.
The unmistakable clank of pots and pans drifted through the door.
Her heart pounded, and she yanked the T-shirt over her head and tugged it down her body. It might be revealing, but it was better than facing Remy topless.
She glanced at the rumpled bed. Actually, it was better to face him downstairs than here. She wasn’t sure she could censor her inappropriate thoughts if she talked to him with a bed nearby. He claimed he wasn’t a mind reader, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
The walk across the room seemed to help her hip. It loosened with each step, and she felt almost normal by the time she reached the door.
Before she opened it, she ran her fingers through her hair, doing her best to smooth the tangles. Her hair had always been her best feature. Thick and blonde, it had a natural wave that made it easy to style. In a burst of inspiration, she arranged it over her breasts. There. Now it covered her nipples, which helped her look a little less like a truck stop waitress. The shirt slipped over her shoulder, revealing her collarbone. She tugged the other side so it lay even across her chest.
It was now or never. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped into a…landing? It was too tiny to be a hallway. Directly across from her was a door identical to her own. A huge window dominated the wall to her left. Outside, a forest painted in brilliant fall colors stretched for what looked like miles. The view pulled at her, but more kitchen sounds came up the stairs to her right.
Intermixed with the kitchen noises was a deep male humming. She went to the stairs and put one hand on the railing, listening.
Remy was humming the theme song of…Gilligan’s Island? A smile pulled at her lips as she descended the stairs. Her hip twinged halfway down, and she slowed her pace, a firm grip on the railing. As she neared the bottom, the lower level came into view. Like the upstairs, the cabin was decorated in understated luxury. An open floor plan gave her a view of a small living room dominated by a stone fireplace. A long dining table that looked carved from a tree trunk separated the living room from a well-appointed kitchen with stainless-steel appliances and gray countertops. In place of cabinets, the walls were lined with thick shelves that held a colorful assortment of ceramic plates and thick mason jars.
But the decor was nothing compared to the man in the kitchen.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared.
Remy had his back to her, but the view from behind was no less inspiring than the front. Although a large island concealed his legs, his height meant she had a perfect shot of his ass.
And what an ass…
Her mouth watered. The man filled out a pair of jeans like he’d been born to it. He hunched in front of the stove and turned a knob. There was a staccato burst of clicks, then the soft whoosh of gas. He leaned against the island, and his gray shirt strained against his back as he folded his arms, a spatula sticking up over his shoulder.
Sophie let out a long, slow breath. Why hadn’t she searched for a mirror upstairs? With her free hand, she pulled more hair over her breasts.
Remy turned his attention toward a small flat screen TV on a side counter, revealing the rugged perfection of his profile. Eyes on the screen, he smiled, then murmured, “Ooh, Willow. Get it, girl.”
Sophie gripped the railing so she wouldn’t melt in a puddle of estrogen. She followed his gaze to the TV, where a young redhead threw her arms around a teen boy and kissed him full on the lips. The sound was muted, but Sophie didn’t need it. She’d recognize Buffy the Vampire Slayer anywhere.
Without warning, Remy turned toward the stairs. Surprise flitted across his face, quickly followed by concern.
“Sophie!” He tossed the spatula on the island, rounded it, and hurried to her side. “What are you doing up? Are you all right?”
Good grief, he was tall. As she had in the parking lot, she tilted her head back so she could meet his gaze.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m up. I m-mean, I’m fine. I’m both.” Wait, what? God, she was rambling like an idiot. She cleared her throat. “I’m good.”
If he thought anything of her incoherent babble, he didn’t show it. His eyes searched her face, then swept down her body. “Are you still hurting? Here, let me help you sit down.” He slipped a hand under her elbow the way a Victorian gentleman might. His palm was warm on her skin, and she suppressed a shiver.
She let him guide her to the dining room table, then stood back as he pulled out a chair.
“Sit,” he said. “I don’t want you to fall.”
“I’m not going to fall,” she said as she lowered into the chair. Even to her own ears, her protest sounded weak and breathless. It was hard to be firm when six and a half feet of blond Viking god was fussing over her.
And, dear Lord, he was barefoot.
Weren’t guys supposed to have ugly feet? Because that was not the case with Remy. She let her eyes wander over his long, tapered toes and strong, square nails. Couldn’t he just have one ugly feature? There had to be something about him that was unappealing, like bacne or a third nipple.
“You sure about that?” he asked.
She yanked her gaze up. “Sure about what?”
“You said you’re not going to fall.”
Oh. “I’m okay. A little sore but okay.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down, his green eyes assessing. “That was a nasty injury.”
“I heal fast.”
“You do,” he murmured. “I was surprised how quickly it sealed up once I got you home.”
“You washed the blood off me.”
He sat back a little. She hadn’t meant her tone to sound accusing, but maybe it had come out that way. Before she could say anything else, he nodded. “I needed to see how deep the wound was. You got lucky.”
Alarm bells went off in her head. If their conversation kept going down this path, he was going to ask how she got hurt. From there, it was only a short jump to Asher…and everything that had happened since her marriage.
She patted her right flank. Fire shot up her side, and she hid a wince. “W-well. Thank you for finding me and bringing me here.” She smoothed her hand over the table’s glossy finish as nerves fluttered in her chest. “Your home is beautiful.”
“Thanks,” he said without taking his eyes off her.
“Are we near the Lodge?”
“About two miles.” He leaned forward, and for a second it seemed like he might touch her. But he stopped short, his fingers inches from hers. “Sophie…can I help you?”
Help.
I
f he’d asked what happened or how she got hurt, she might have been prepared. It was what she expected. But he didn’t ask the obvious questions.
Instead, his simple, direct plea reached out and robbed her breath—like the gentlest gut punch. In all these weeks, over all the days and nights she’d suffered, no one had ever offered her help.
No, it went back even further than that. When she stood in front of her father’s desk and begged him not to pledge her to Asher, he didn’t help her. When she struggled with her weight as a teen, her mother printed out dieting tips and bought a treadmill, but she didn’t offer any help. When she flipped over her bike’s handlebars in second grade, the pack’s Beta scolded her for being careless. Didn’t she realize how important her father was? How critical it was for her to grow up and give the pack an heir?
She’d been given everything—beautiful clothes, a sprawling home, and a team of Hunters ready to tear the throat out of anyone who threatened her.
But help? No, nobody had ever offered that.
Tears gathered in her eyes, and her throat burned. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
In an instant, Remy was off his chair and kneeling at her side, one big hand on her knee. “What is it, sweetheart? Are you in pain?”
She shook her head, then a sob burst from her chest.
Before she could process what was happening, strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, and a warm palm stroked her back. She pressed her face against Remy’s neck as hot tears flooded her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Great, choking gasps followed one after another, until they formed a long trail of weeping.
“Let it out, baby,” he murmured, his deep voice soft, the way a parent might comfort a child. “It’s okay. Let it out.”
She’d heard the term “open the floodgates” before. This must be what people mean when they say that. It was as if she’d stuffed years of heartache behind a dam. Remy’s concern had poked a few small holes in the side, and now the whole thing was falling to pieces. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears kept coming. Now that the tap was on, she couldn’t turn it off.