Page 67 of Cuffed By the Wolf

It costs me something to remember that with his throat an inch from my jaw and his eyes wide and furious under me, but I do. I ease back, just enough, and shift down to human, my knee still planted in his ribs to keep him there.

“Sheriff,” Fitch yells out, concern heavy in his tone.

Letting this narcissist go to prison is just the punishment he needs. No easy way out. He’ll live behind the wall with no one but himself to be upset with.

I notice sirens glowing through the barn window. Looks like our backup arrived.

I climb off him — still wolf, still snarling, refusing to give me the satisfaction of shifting on his own — and notice the barn doors are closed. Carson and his pack can either be escorted out in handcuffs or cages. Either way, they will return to human form before going to trial.

Deputy Mavins places one of my many uniforms in my hands. Four other deputies stand with their guns drawn, keeping the crime scene secure.

Once I’m dressed, I call out, “Fitch.”

He approaches. “Yes, Sheriff?”

“Toss Carson some clothes.”

We keep clothes on hand when we patrol. Never know when we’ll have to deal with an unruly shifter.

Carson is still in his wolf form. Does he think he has a way out?

Fitch flings the clothes in front of Carson.

“Put them on,” I order.

He snarls again.

“Don’t make me tase you.”

Stubborn as ever, he leaves me no choice. I unhook my taser from my belt and zap him. When tased a few times, our bodies transform to our human form whether we want them to or not.

Finally, he shifts back and climbs into the shorts and t-shirt. I remove my cuffs from my belt and approach him. “You have the right to remain silent.” As I reach for his wrist, he twirls around and bolts toward the side door.

“I got him,” I yell.

Gun raised, I shout, “Carson, stop or I’ll shoot.”

He points a weapon over his shoulder and fires. Somehow he must’ve grabbed it on his way to the door. Maybe it was stashed.

I dart to the left, dodging the bullet.

He runs deeper into the woods. I return fire.

“Fucking stop running, Carson,” I roar as I pick up speed, branches tearing at my sleeves, the ground uneven and treacherous underfoot in the dark. He knows this stretch of woods better than I expected — every cut and turn like he’s run it before, planned this route out as an exit long before tonight.

He lets off another shot. I feel the heat in the side of my arm before the pain catches up to it.

“Fuck,” I grit out.

I let off two more shots.

“Shit,” he cries out.

I hear a thud hitting the forest floor.

The light on my Glock lights my path. “Hands where I can see them.”

No response.