by Rose, Callie
So he can teach me a lesson for trying to run away.
He’ll kill me this time. I just know it.
I leap to my feet and race toward the window, shoving aside the curtains. For a terrifying minute, I think the damn thing is nailed shut, until I realize there’s a safety catch on the rail that I have to unlatch in order to raise it. Footsteps are moving through the house beyond the closed door, coming closer. Uncle Clint isn’t hurried, obviously. He probably thinks I’m too injured to get away, especially after finding me at the bottom of a ravine.
Jesus, I’m lucky to be alive.
The fleeting thought flits through my mind a second before something falls to the floor in the other room with a jarring clang.
My luck is about to run out.
Every single thud of those unhurried steps makes my hands shake harder. It’s difficult enough trying to maneuver my fingers above the wrist brace with pain lancing up my arm, but the adrenaline pumping through me makes my hands shake so badly that it’s almost impossible. I finally manage to slide my thumb up with enough force to unlock the catch, then lean my shoulder in and jam the window open.
Cool mountain air gusts into the room, tickling my skin, and I take a deep breath of the familiar scent of distant snow and evergreens, hoping it will calm me.
It doesn’t fucking work, but it hardly matters. The footsteps outside the room are almost here, and I’m running on pure self-preservation instinct now, an almost animalistic drive to just fucking survive.
The window isn’t set high on the wall, thank God, so I don’t have to haul myself up to get through it. As soon as it’s open wide enough, I’ve got my torso out the window, sliding to freedom on my belly with all the elegance of a hippo on a dry water slide.
I land awkwardly on the ground outside, landing on my arms and shoulders. My legs flop out after me, the momentum sending me into a graceless barrel roll.
With a soft grunt, I come to rest on my side. The strange, oversized pajama pants I’m wearing have unfolded at the bottoms. They’re too long—a man’s pair of thin flannels that trail a foot past my feet. I consider rolling them back up and hoping they’ll stay in place, but the reality is, they’re loose and thin and I’m out of time. So I shove the damn things down my legs and kick them off.
My body protests as I use the thick logs on the outside of the cabin to pull myself to my feet. I can put weight on my twisted ankle, thankfully, but it hurts like hell. I know my race through the woods last night didn’t help the situation, but it’s not like I had a choice then, any more than I have a choice now.
I have to get the hell out of here.
Fight, Sable. Run. Stay alive.
I shove away from the cabin, taking a few tentative steps to make sure my legs aren’t going to collapse beneath me. Then I break into a run, trying not to think about the fact that my ass is on display for God and everyone to see. At least the large t-shirt hangs down low enough to cover most of it.
There are other cabins nearby, but I don’t dare knock on any of their doors begging for help. Clint’s good at making friends, and I can’t count on any strangers taking my side over his.
The tree line of a thick forest is only a hundred yards away to my left, and I run in that direction, hoping to get lost in the trees like I did last night. The memory of my dark flight to freedom sends a surge of anger and frustration through me that I channel into my legs.
I can’t believe Clint found me. I must’ve run miles into deep wilderness, through woods and up into the foothills. He never allowed me to have a cell phone; hell, I couldn’t even wear a watch under his rules.
So did he have some kind of tracker implanted in me like a psychopath?
Sadly, I wouldn’t put something like that past him. I wouldn’t put anything past him, and I’m reminded starkly of how foolish my unplanned flight was.
I didn’t think through any of this. I just ran.
And now I have no choice but to keep running.
There’s a rough dirt road beneath my bare feet—dry, dusty ground that hasn’t seen a good rainfall in a few days. I know that probably means I’m leaving a billowing trail of dust in my wake, but either side of the road is lined by small, rustic houses, so there’s no other route I can take.
My arms and legs pump harder as I go for a bit more speed.
I don’t recognize this place. It’s not Big Creek, the town where I lived with Uncle Clint—at least, I don’t think it is. I wasn’t exactly allowed out of the house to get to know the area, but we drove through it every time we made the trip to the hospital or the few other errands he took me on. I don’t recall a distinct lack of power lines, and we definitely drove on asphalt roads, not dirt and gravel.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a few people. But I don’t let myself look for more than a second, keeping my head down and praying none of them sound the alarm.
If Uncle Clint brought me to this place, it means he has friends here. Friends who don’t care what he gets up to in his own home, or how he abuses his niece. I can’t trust any of these people to help me. I couldn’t before, and I definitely can’t now that I’ve run away.
The full force of his anger is about to come down on me like a hammer falling, unless I can get away a second time.
The dirt road ends abruptly at thick grass, and I cross the line with a surge of relief. I’m almost there. Grass is springier than the packed dirt road, and I use it to my advantage, running faster, my breaths coming quicker.
Dear God, please just let me get away. Please give me a chance to live a better life.
The trees, and what little protection they might offer, are only a few feet away.
But before I can reach them, two arms wrap tightly around my waist, hauling me off the ground and pinning me against a solid chest.
5
Ridge
Goddammit. This isn’t how I wanted to get a half-naked girl in my arms.
Normal guys, they go to parties. Go to bars. They talk up the first hot woman who shakes her ass in their direction, then fuck her senseless against a bathroom wall covered in graffiti that probably includes her phone number.
Not me. No, my dumb ass has to find an unconscious woman in the wilderness and bring her home, only for her to strip to her panties and race madly through the village in an attempt to escape.
I mean, I know I’m not People’s Sexiest Man Alive, but damn.
The girl’s head slams back toward my face, and I have to crane my neck sideways to keep from getting a busted nose.
“Hey! I’m not going to hurt you!” I snarl as she tries again, whipping my head back the other way.
“Then put me down and let me go!” she gasps, struggling against my hold. She has a light, bell-like voice, though the bite to her statement takes some of the melody away. One bare foot catches me in the shin, and I grunt at the burst of pain. But so does she—hitting bones with bare limbs is like kicking concrete.
On the third attempted headbutt, I lack any other option. Locking one arm around her waist, I wrap her long hair around my other hand and tug her head back. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to pin her firmly in place against my body. In any other situation, I’d be following this move up with my lips on her earlobe, my tongue sliding down her neck. In this situation, that would be highly inappropriate.
But fuck if a part of me doesn’t have a split second desire to do it.
“Calm down,” I say softly in her ear as her torso pumps with hysterical breaths beneath my other arm. “You’re hurt. You’re going to make it worse.”
Bad choice. That’s when the screaming starts.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I thought I saved a sexy, blonde-haired princess last night, but this creature is a fucking banshee with the balls of a tiger. I knew the girl had been abused when I stripped her down and checked her injuries, but with her unconscious, I couldn’t exactly ask after her mental state. It’s clear now that I should have tied her to the bedposts for he
r own safety—and mine.
“Jesus, woman, I’m not going to hurt you!” I say, dragging her back the way we came. Dust is still settling on the road from our run through the village, but it’s not enough cover to hide the spectacle she’s making. Grady’s over in his front yard, eyebrows chasing his receding hairline as he watches us with wide eyes. Cordelia Raney is sitting with her sister on the front porch, both of them staring at me like I’m killing the woman and dancing in her blood—though the two of them judge every fucking thing in sight, so I can’t even care. Even more of my packmates are emerging from their houses to check out what’s causing all the commotion.
Yeah. Not how I expected this day to go.
“Let me go!” The banshee punctuates the last word with a full body wave, clearly intending to slither out of my arms like a snake. But she has no idea I’m stronger than any man she’s ever known, and she just jerks uselessly against my grasp. Unfortunately, that luscious ass I salivated over the night before slams right into my dick.
I pause and grit my teeth against the pain and nausea rolling through my insides from the blow. Damn it all to hell. We aren’t even past the first row of houses, and she’s still screaming.
Fuck. So much for keeping this quiet from the pack until I figure out what to do with her.
Since our current arrangement isn’t going to work out—for her or my dick—I drop her to the ground. She’s so startled, she immediately stops screaming. Gripping her waist, I whirl her around, catching sight of wide, tearful blue eyes that make a pit yawn open inside me. Then I lean over and jam my shoulder into her abdomen, hauling her up onto my shoulder.
Sometimes, you just gotta Neanderthal shit up.
I can move quicker now, ignoring the ever-growing curious stares from my pack as I head straight for my cabin. They aren’t used to me having shit to do with women to begin with, and now they probably think I’m some kind of closet serial killer.
The girl’s shock at being slung over my shoulder gives me a blessed moment of silence and stillness before she starts bucking like a fucking bronco and screaming like I’m ripping her skin off one strip at a time.
Shit. Putting her next to my head probably wasn’t a great idea.
I lock my arm firmly around her thighs so that all she can move are her arms. It works—barely. I’ll have some bruises and scratches on my back later, but if that’s all I walk away from this alley cat with, I’ll count myself fucking lucky.
Yanking open the screen door, I cross the threshold into my cabin and then slam the front door behind me. I stop myself short of turning the lock.
Yeah, I don’t want this mess of a woman launching headlong into the woods where another pack—or hell, one of those fucking witches—might not show her mercy. But I don’t want her to think she’s a prisoner either. I feel like I’m walking a tightrope, bringing a wild animal into my house and having to figure out the best way to navigate the situation.
Good thing I have experience with wild animals.
Sunlight spills through the large front window onto the smooth hardwood in my living room. I bend down, letting the woman flop out of my arms and onto the well-worn brown corduroy couch that’s probably older than she is.
She’s no longer screaming, not since we passed through the door into the house, but she’s breathing like she just finished the Boston Marathon. Her fair skin looks even paler than it did in the dark of my bedroom last night, and with every breath she sucks in, she appears to have a harder time breathing.
Fuck. It hits me in a rush as I gaze at her. She’s having a panic attack. I’m such an asshole.
I kneel on the ground before her and reach for her hands, being as gentle as possible. The girl’s a deer, wide-eyed and terrified, and I’m the big bad wolf. I just have to convince her I’m not going to eat her.
She jolts away from me, but I manage to clasp her small hands. Her skin is soft and smooth.
“Hey. Hey, you’re safe,” I say, pitching my voice in the most soothing tone I can muster. Considering I have a deep baritone that sounds like I’m talking through gravel, it’s a far reach for “soothing.” I’ve got the kind of voice that leads a pack of feral wolves, not a namby-pamby motherly tone.
She sucks in breath after breath, but her fingers cling to mine. That’s progress, right?
“I’m Ridge,” I say when she doesn’t reply. “You’re in my cabin in the mountains. I found you last night. You were hurt, and I brought you home to take care of you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“H-how d-do I kn-know?” Every word comes out breathy, and on the heels of her statement, a crystalline tear crests over her lower eyelid and spills down her cheek.
My heart twinges in my chest. She’s fucking terrified, so full of abject fear that she’s desperate to escape. I can see in her gorgeous blue eyes that she fully expects I’m going to hurt her.
Just like the monster who marred her beautiful body.
“I can’t prove it,” I tell her truthfully, rubbing my thumbs over her fingers in what I hope is a calming gesture. “But I promise, I won’t hurt you. I only want to help you.”
We stare at one another for several moments. I keep rubbing the bend of her fingers and maintain a polite distance from her body so that I don’t overstep and make her even more frightened than she already is. She’s fucking beautiful, even with fear in her eyes and the pain etched on her face.
I want to destroy the person who turned her into this pitiful creature.
Finally, her shoulders slump forward, the tension in her body lessening by a fraction. She takes a deep, shaky breath and lets it out slowly.
I did it—I got through the panic.
“I’m sorry you woke up in a strange place. That was probably scary as fuck,” I say, trying to get on her level, to show with my apology that I get it. “Especially after whatever happened to you last night. How’d you end up in Devil’s Ditch? In the ravine?”
She blinks at me as if she’s trying to relearn English. As if my words don’t quite make sense, and she has to take an extra few seconds to sort through them as her brain comes back from whatever place it went to during her panic attack.
I don’t move. Don’t even blink. I just keep holding her hands, giving her the time and space she needs to answer.
Finally, her tongue darts out to lick her lips. She swallows once, then opens her mouth to speak.
But before she can say a word, several loud voices rise up outside the cabin. The girl’s face changes instantly, and she recoils into the couch cushions, her gaze darting toward the front door.
I sigh, the sound a mixture of irritation and disgust. I recognize the voice clamoring loudest over the dull uproar.
The front door bangs open, and my brother, Lawson, barrels into the house as big as a mountain and wearing his fury like a cloak. A handful of his cronies rush in behind him, until my living room is nothing but pissed-off shifter energy.
“What the fuck, Ridge?” Lawson snarls, pointing at the girl.
Too late, I realize I should have locked that fucking door.
6
Sable
For a moment, I got lost in Ridge’s honey-colored eyes. I woke up expecting to come face-to-face with Uncle Clint, but what I ended up getting instead was pretty much the complete opposite of the man who raised me.
When the dark-haired man caught me near the trees, I was so certain I was about to die that I fought with everything I had in me. But inside his house, something shifted in his demeanor.
His gruff voice managed to block out the fear, to shove away the rising panic so that I could focus on him and his calming words.
I started to calm down.
I started to feel… safe.
But I don’t feel safe now.
Nearly a half-dozen of the biggest people I’ve ever seen crowd into his living room, voices raised as angry, violent energy pours out of them. My terror returns full force, and I cower into the cushions, wishing I could sink right through them
and disappear to the other side of the planet.
Ridge meets my eyes, a look of resignation passing through his amber irises. Then he pushes to his feet.
He’s just as big as any of the men who’ve barged into the house, if not bigger. He wears a plain white t-shirt and Wranglers, but beneath those working man clothes, he has a body like I’ve never seen before: lean, muscular, broad shoulders and powerful legs. His ash-brown hair has a messy, unbrushed look that happens accidentally, and the close-cut beard gracing his jaw only heightens the scruffy wildness of his appearance.
He turns to face the newcomers, his boots shoulder-width apart and his hands dangling at his sides as he addresses the crowd. “Lawson. You ever heard of fuckin’ knocking?”
Something about his pose tells me he’s not casual—Ridge looks as if he could jerk into motion at any moment and put his fist through the big guy’s face.
Lawson, the apparent leader of the group, puffs up his chest, his scowl deepening. “You brought an outsider into our village.”
“What the fuck were you thinking?” another guy snaps. His question raises a rumble of agreement from the others.
“The pack wants answers.” Lawson opens his palms up as if to indicate the mob behind him. He’s a little taller than Ridge, but he doesn’t take up the room with just his presence like Ridge does. I have a feeling this guy is all show.
The thought doesn’t really help me breathe past the looming panic attack though. He’s still massive, with fists like ham hocks and an expression so full of loathing, I can’t tell if he wants to get rid of me or Ridge. Possibly both.
“We’re already facing a threat from the witches!” the only woman in the group snaps, raising her voice over the dull roar of the crowd. She’s tall and formidable, muscles rippling in her golden brown arms. “And you drag this fucking carcass into our pack? You don’t know that she isn’t one of those wolf-hating assholes!”