Mate (Bride, #2) (2)

It’s fall. In a place that a year or so ago— back when I still foolishly believed I was Human— I would have called Oregon. Now that my Were genes are taking over, stuff like cartography and state lines have become comically trivial, but the crux of the matter remains: November in the Northwest is cold, and I’m not dressed appropriately.

The goddamn timing, I mouth to myself, darting behind the gnarly trunk of a Douglas fir. Chest heaving, I stare down at my very Human-shaped hand. I visualize the change, willing my bitten-to- the-quick nails to turn into claws.

Shift into a wolf, Serena. Shift into a fucking wolf, or I swear to God that

. . .

That nothing. My body refuses to be shamed into compliance. I glance up at the sky, but the much-publicized pull of the moon offers only the most apathetic of tugs. With a muted groan, I resume my sprint through the forest, bare feet slipping through fresh mud. A dozen little cuts crisscross my soles and shins. The longer I run, the fainter my hope that the soil will conceal the iron scent of my blood.

And I’ve been running for a while.

The intruder is tracking me. Gaining ground. The wind carries his ever-closer smell, and I don’t like what it tells me. Vampyre. Adult in his prime.

Eager. The thrill of the chase titillates him, and his arousal scrapes against the bottom of my stomach. As revolting as that is, though, it’s the least of my problems. Because if I can smell him this clearly, there’s a very high chance that he’s close enough to—

“At long fucking last.” The words hiss like bullets in my ear. An instant later, my back is slammed into a trunk. I don’t know what hurts most— the bark biting into my skin, the hand he curls around my throat, or his disgusting, maniacal stench.

The forest is pitch black. There’s no darkness through which Weres cannot see, but I got only half of those nice wolf genes, which means that my night vision is hit or miss. Still, the Vampyre’s bloodlust is unmistakable. As is the blade in his hand. “Not very fast, are you?” he growls.

No shit. I swallow an eye roll and make myself moan helplessly.

“Please,” I beg. His scent explodes, like having women at his mercy is his kink of choice— how predictable— so I give him some more. “Please, don’t kill me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

He’s so interested. I let out a whimper and widen my eyes. “Anything.”

His eyes travel down my body, as if to assess what I might be useful for

— organ trafficking, bone broth, yard maintenance. Unlike me, he is fast.

Preternaturally so. With dizzying speed, his knife slices through the front of my silk top, deepening the neckline.

This fucker.

But as he leers, his scent spikes. Which means that he’s distracted enough by what he’s uncovered that I get a chance to put the self-defense classes my sister forced me to attend to good use.

Knee to the groin.

Headbutt to the nose.

And, as a little extra, an elbow to the stomach. I mean, why not?

The Vampyre grunts. Mutters a few variations of “fucking whore.” I’m free, though. I might not be able to outrun him, but I can grab a fistful of soil and throw it at his eyes, which does just enough damage to slow him down. I frantically look around and— yes. I spot a sharp, jagged rock. Bend down to palm it.

“You fucking freak of nature.” The Vampyre is on me again, twisting my arm behind my back. I let out a yelp, but the rock is in my hand.

Tragically, he’s holding my wrist at the wrong angle for me to strike.

In theory, I know what the next step is— move closer, lower your center of gravity, rotate your body, strike with your free hand— and boy, do I try.

Sadly, the Vampyre is a notch or two above the average fighter, and none of it works.

That’s when my stomach starts churning for real. This is not going to end well. “Let. Me. Go,” I spit out.

“Shut up.” The vinegar of his scent stings my nose. He’s even more worked up now. And I’m in even deeper shit. “I may not be allowed to kill you, but I can make you hurt a whole fucking lot before I— ”

“Can you, though?” A male voice interrupts him. It travels in our direction from some place in the thicket of trees. A rich, slow curl, at once vicious and detached. No answer exists that could faze this voice. “Can you really, buddy?”

The Vampyre’s frame stiffens. Before he can leash his instinctive reaction, I smell utter, abject, acrid fear.

I close my eyes. Force my burning lungs to inhale slowly. Let my prospect of the next ten minutes readjust, mold to a shape that is . . . still unfortunate, yes, but a touch less.

Koen.

Koen’s here.

It will be all right.

The Vampyre yanks me in front of him, holding his knife to my throat. I wonder if he means to use me as a hostage, or as a meat shield that barely reaches the top of his chest. “What are you doing here?” he barks.

It’s a fair question. Koen lives several hours away and hasn’t been around in nearly two months, since the day he dropped me off at the cabin, at my request, with a metric ton of supplies, a lingering stare, and a mocking Have fun chatting up the spruces, killer that didn’t quite match the intensity in his eyes.

“Did you just ask what I’m doing in my territory? What the fuck are you doing, shitdump?” A handful of long, unhurried strides, and Koen emerges from the thicket.