It doesn’t bother me.
It shouldn’t.
“Hey-oh!” I holler. Fallon sticks his head in the door. Not the male I’d have chosen, but he’ll do. “Go find Una Hayes.”
“And then what?”
“Come back. Report.”
“You want me to bring her here?”
“I want you to come back. And report.” I don’t hide the irritation in my voice.
“Yeah. Right. On it.” Finally, he shifts and races off. He’s fast. I’ll give him that.
I settle back against the wall. I’m amped. The steam’s doing nothing for my tension. I’m not gonna go chasing off after Fallon Campbell and rend him limb-from-limb. That’s crazy. He’s just a kid, and he’s just doing what I asked.
I’m going to sit here and relax.
Nothing’s changed. I am who I’ve always been.
I don’t have a mate. My wolf and I are one—the only flip-shifter in three generations.
Everything is as it should be. As I’ve made it.
The pack is good. All is well or soon will be.
A low rumble sounds in my throat. I swallow it down.
3
UNA
I wake up in a bramble. I’m not me. I’m her. Us.
There are stickers in my fur. Our fur. There’s a thorn in the pad of my paw. It hurts.
Everything hurts.
The light is too bright. The sun is directly overhead. I’m hot. Burning up. Cramps seize my belly, twisting tighter and tighter. I’m swollen between my back legs. I’m tender there, aching and slick.
I want and I need and I hurt.
Killian. If I can speak, I can call. He’ll come. He’ll help.
There are no words in my mouth; my tongue is dry and coarse. I’m so thirsty. I’m dying from it. I need water. And Killian. He’ll bring me water.
I whine and arch my back, raising my haunches. I have to. This is what I’m supposed to do even though everything is wrong. A branch scratches my side. The hurts twine—pricks, aches, a piercing longing that cuts and never eases, no matter how I shift my body.
The air is sweet, but not the sweet I need. Blackberries. I’m in a blackberry patch.
I whimper, wriggling forward, but the prickles scratch my underbelly. I can’t move anymore.
Where’s my pack? Where are the others?
It’s not right to be alone. We’re defenseless here. Except for the thorns. They’ll give us some protection until our mate comes.
And he will.
I need him. I howl, but the sound is thready. He won’t be able to hear. I grope blindly along the bond. He’s there. Not very far away. I can feel him. He’s strong. Willful. Mine.
Come.
He jerks at the word, but he doesn’t move. His wolf howls, and it echoes through the woods, faint by the time it reaches my perked ears.
Come now.
The heat is ratcheting higher. I can’t wait much longer. I need him. I lay my muzzle on the ground and present. I’m ready. Past ready.
He can soothe this ache. He can unwind this coiling agony, this drumming, throbbing need.
But he doesn’t come. His howl fades to nothing, and my guts heave, my throat convulses. I’m sick. It’s sour and sharp in my nose, and I heave again and again until my stomach’s empty. I turn my muzzle so I’m not laying in it. It’s all I can do.
I’m facing a clump of blackberries now, and their ripeness cloys. Offends. I want my mate. I want Killian’s sweet toffee, molasses, thick and sticky caramel scent. I cover my snout with my paws and press closer to the dirt.
The pain won’t stop. It crashes into me in incessant waves—the pricking thorns, the agonizing heat, my spasming leg, and worst of all, the torn and jagged wound where my bond begins. How could he hurt us and not feel it? Something is terribly wrong. Unnatural. Out of order.
Where is he?
He’s not here. He won’t come.
My wolf doesn’t understand. Grief overwhelms her. He must be dead. He must be trapped or hurt or else he would come. She is certain. She knows this in every fiber of her being.
Her heart breaks, and her heart is mine, so it doesn’t matter that I know Killian Kelly is garbage, and that he’s rejected us. I shatter, too, as I sweat and whine, haunches raised, ready, longing for a male in a way I never, ever have before.
The woods are silent except for a faint breeze rustling high in the canopy.
I don’t know how long I’m here. A long time. When a sharp scent breaks me out of my delirium, the sun is low in the west. There’s a voice, curt and strong, familiar. I call out, but nothing escapes my lungs but a wheeze.