I turned toward the alley that ran along the east side of the park.
That was when I smelled it.
Not the charred sage, not exactly. It was similar but weaker, like a scent that had been in a space and then left it rather than one that was actively present. At the mouth of the alley, a man sat against the brick wall with his legs stretched out across the sidewalk. He was dressed in layers, a dirty canvas jacket, knit cap pulled down over his ears despite the warmth of the morning. A cardboard sign I couldn’t quite read. His chin was down, like he was asleep or close to it.
I almost kept walking. Then he moved a little, and I got a clearer hit of the smell, and every hair on my arms stood up.
The sensation building in my stomach was unmistakable. It had announced Mark in the hallway, it had announced the nurse in the dark. It surged up from beneath conscious thought, insistent and primal, the same ancient instinct that had kept me alive this long and wasn’t done yet.
Run.
I ran.
Not back toward the park, not toward the FBI. Down the block, east, then north on Guadalupe, until I hit the transit plaza and saw a northbound bus pulling up to the stop. If I wanted to headfor Dana’s place, which felt like the best option at this point, this would be the bus to take.
I got on.
Dana’s apartment was a second-floor unit in a building that had been a warehouse at some point in the mid-century. It was dim and cool and had the faint must of an enclosed space that hadn’t had a window opened since Dana’s departure. Climbing shoes hung from a hook by the door, a library book lay spine-up on the couch, and a sticky note on the fridge had her contact information in Barcelona scrawled on it.
I threw away the ancient pad thai in the fridge and drank a glass of water, then sat down and put my head in my hands. I was currently in my friend’s apartment, wearing a stranger’s sweatpants, with no clear plan beyonddon’t go home and don’t get eaten.
I needed to eat something myself. Dana’s pantry produced peanut butter, crackers that weren’t quite expired, and a can of black beans I chose not to think too hard about. I ate standing over the kitchen counter and watched the street below the window and thought.
He’d saidstay in the cabin. He’d saidI’ll explain everything.
I hadn’t stayed, which was, objectively, exactly what he had coming. Still, I felt almost… naughty. Like I should have done as I was told by my mate.
My mate?Was that agreed upon now?
The more pressing issue was the hobo-outfitted skinwalker back in the alley. Because if the skinwalker was real and the wolfman was right about that, he was probably right about the rest.
Which meantits offspring wouldwas a sentence I really needed to hear the end of.
I took a shower, found a pair of Dana’s leggings that fit well enough and a vintage Lobo’s sweatshirt that was only slightly too large, then claimed the bed because the couch had a spring I could feel from across the room. I lay on my back in the dark and stared at the ceiling.
The amber eyes came back immediately. His voice came back too, rough and certain.
You’re mine. Say it.
And I had said it, repeatedly, pressed against the rough planks of his cabin with his hands gripping my hips, his cock buried in my spasming pussy, and his palm smacking my bare ass.
I squirmed on the mattress as I thought about the way he’d pinned me to the wall.
Gentle is what you deserve. But it’s not what you need.
My hand drifted south.
I pressed it flat against my stomach for a moment and told myself that touching myself while thinking about a man who had spanked me and then turned into a wolf was a line I shouldn’t cross if I wanted to maintain any remaining claim to having my priorities in order.
Then I thought about the way he’d saidnaughty girl, with that low growl, and my hand kept moving.
I kept it quiet. Dana’s walls were thin. I let the memory play without trying to direct it, the weight of him against my back, the sting of his palm, the way he’d made me beg for it, and by thetime I reached the edge the sheet was bunched in my fist and I’d bitten my lip hard enough to hurt.
The orgasm was good. Embarrassingly good given the circumstances.
I lay there afterwards with the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead until my mind circled back to the look he’d given me before he left. Not before he shifted, before that, when he’d still been human and lying beside me and his thumb had been doing that maddening idle circle on my hip. There had been something in his eyes besides lust. It was deeper, more primal and possessive.
Like I belonged to him, and maybe I always had.
