What neither he nor the animal could figure out, however, was what shewas.
This was a mystery piled on top of a heap of the great many things he didn’t know. For instance, he had no idea how he’d ended up in a stonewalled cell, how he’d gone from an old, bloodspattered uniform to nothing but thin cotton trousers, or what was going to happen to him now. He didn’t know what they’d drugged him with, or if his grogginess was a result of the hit an orc had delivered on the battlefield just before everything went dark.
He didn’t know what the lean, aged witch in the wool suit planned to do with him. He had no idea if he was a prisoner of war or something worse.
All he knew was that he could not shift and that the little woman curled up against the metal door of his cell was… something. Something tantalizing. Something that made his animal sit up on his back legs andgrowl.
His kind didn’t exactly have alphas, since they rarely formed true packs, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t just as dominant as any alpha wolf might be. Otto was dominant through and through — and any dominant shifter worth their salt could pick out a true submissive from a mile away.
They were rare, and when they did pop up, packs tended to swaddle them. If you weren’t trusted, you’d be lucky to even get a glimpse of a pack’s submissives. They were soft. They held the power of the pack. They were to be protected at all times by those who had the stomach for fighting, for dominance.
To encounter one of those rare creatureshere,of all places, made him balk.
The younger witch, lean and flinty-eyed, had practically tossed her into the cell. When she stumbled, landing hard on her palms with a pained sound, he’d strained so hard against his collar that the dull metal began to slice into his throat. Even sluggish, injured, and confused, it was pure instinct to come to her defense.
She called the older manpapa,but what kind of father treated his cub like that? And why didn’t she smell witchy? There was magic in her, certainly — a tang like metal left to bake in the sun, like fresh blood — but it wasn’t the same as his.
Shifter, then,he’d thought, but that couldn’t be right, either.
It drove him crazy that he couldn’t scent the animal in her. It wasthere,but it was indefinable. Everything and nothing.
He didn’tdoindefinable. You either were something or you weren’t. It was the animal in him that needed certainty, but the man wanted it, too. He’d had vanishingly little to be sure of since the Packlands had been pulled into the war, and for reasons that escaped his foggy mind, it was vitally important that he be certain about Josephine.
When she didn’t say a word, but rather huddled somehow closer to the door, Otto let out a huff through his nose. Everything in her posture screamed at him to back off. Somewhere in the back of his waterlogged mind, he remembered that submissives tended to get that way around unknown predators, particularly when they weren’t being cared for properly.
Going by her thin cheeks and tears, Otto thought it was safe to assume Josephine was not getting that care.
“Josephine,” he tried again, working hard to keep his raw voice gentle. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’d just like to know what’s going on. I don’t know where I am or who you are. Could you explain it to me,lille mus?”
For a while, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing. Otto had to reach deep for the good humor and ease his people were known for as he waited for her to answer. The years of violence he endured since he got roped into the war had all but stamped that part of him out.
Losing his temper with her wasn’t an option, though. She was scared enough as it was.
At last, her soft voice made it past the folds of her blouse and fall of hair she hid behind. “I can’t tell you where you are because I don’t know. I’m not told those things. I believe we are in the midwest, on a homestead called Meadow Creek.” She took in a shuddering breath. “And— and I’m Josephine. But you know that.”
Meadow Creek?The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. As soon as it began to stick in his unstable memory, it slipped away again.
He was becoming more certain by the minute that he’d been drugged. His thoughts were too sluggish, and his throat itched with an unnatural thirst. Focusing was almost impossible.
Except for when it came to her.
He had no problem thinking when he looked at his little mouse, probably because his animal was fixated on her in a way he’d never experienced before. If it could have, it would have burst out of his skin to run its nose along her hair, her neck, sifting through the layers of her scent to figure out exactly what she was.
His kind did love a puzzle, after all.
Clearing his parched throat, he said, “Josephine is a pretty name. I’m—”
“It’s best if you don’t tell me.”
He blinked. “Why?”
She peeked at him through the curtain of her hair. It was difficult to make out her expression, but he thought she might lookanguished.
“Because,” she answered, voice thick, “it always makes it worse.”
Otto felt his pulse jump in his throat. The animal that was his other half wanted to rear up on his hind legs androarat the sight of so much fear in her eyes, so much pain. He fought the compulsion to jerk against his chains again. Doing so would only scare her more, but being still, watching her hurt when she was so close was unnatural.
Go to her,instinct bellowed.Fix it!
