by Kyla Stone
“Whoa now,” she said softly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
As soon as she sat back down, the wolf’s ears lifted. He gave her a piercing look, as if to say, now stay there.
She settled against the ridged, furrowed bark of the hickory tree, yellowed leaves rustling over her head. “You want me right here where you can keep an eye on me,” she murmured, still hardly daring to breathe. “Is that it?”
Shadow prowled in a slow, languid circle around her, sniffing the ground, the air, never breaching that ten-foot radius. Ten feet or ten inches, it hardly mattered. His jaws could snap around her throat in less than a second if he wished.
After five minutes of circling while Raven sat rigid, nearly passing out from lack of oxygen, the wolf loped away, disappearing into the underbrush.
This time she knew better than to move. He was still there, just out of sight, watching her. Both of the wolves were there. She could feel their presence in the prickling of her skin, the rapid beat of her heart.
This was their territory. She was the intruder. Whether she lived or died tonight was entirely up to them.
She inhaled a slow, shaky breath and glanced up. Should she try to climb the tree, escape their reach? But there were no low branches. She scanned the other trees—all too slim to bear her weight, or the branches began too high. Besides, movement would attract the wolves. They’d be on her in a heartbeat if they deemed her actions threatening in any way.
She sat against the tree trunk and waited, the knife clenched at her side. There was nothing else for her to do. The cold ground seeped through her pants and chilled her legs and backside. Above her head, the sickle of a moon hung in the trees, caught in a snarl of branches.
She listened to the heartbeat of the night, the pitter-patter of tiny nocturnal creatures, the soughing of the wind through the trees. She strained for any sound or glimpse of the wolves, but there was nothing. They moved through the darkness like ghosts.
An hour later, the black wolf returned.
13
This time, the wolf came far closer.
He trotted around Raven, sniffing the ground. He circled her again and again, each time closer, closer.
She waited and watched, forcing herself to breathe, to keep her heart from hammering right out of her chest. Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid. Don’t give him a reason to kill you.
His behavior was much like the timber wolves investigating some new toy or strange object in their enclosure. Almost like a dog.
But he was no dog. He was enormous. This close, she had to look up at him. His high, regal head, long muzzle, and sharp, inquisitive eyes gleaming with intelligence. That broad, thickly furred chest and long, lean legs.
He bounded close to sniff at the soles of her boots. She gasped, her brain shrieking in alarm. Just as quickly, he darted away.
Shadow half-turned as if to leave. Then suddenly, without warning, he whirled on her. He snapped his jaws and nipped her shoulder.
She flinched, stunned. Run! Her brain screamed at her.
But her brain was a liar. To run now would trigger his prey-response. Instinct would drive him to attack, even if that wasn’t his original intention.
She couldn’t run. She couldn’t do anything but remain statue-still and endure this.
Her shoulder smarted. Slowly, gingerly, she felt it. No blood. No missing chunks of flesh.
The wolf hadn’t bitten her. He wasn’t trying to hurt her. Or at least, not much. Not yet.
He was interested in something else.
Shadow disappeared into the underbrush. Again, Raven waited.
Another hour passed. The air grew colder and colder. Slender white-trunked birch trees glowed faintly in the moonlight. Sticks and branches littered the ground at her feet.
To keep herself awake, she reached out and picked up a stick, thick as her forearm, about a foot long. It was a good stick for whittling.
At least she still had the knife. An image of the blood-streaked wooden bird she’d carved at her father’s bedside flitted through her mind. She pushed it out. She couldn’t think of that now—her father’s body stiffening, growing cold, the red Georgia clay filling his gaping mouth, pressing against his dead eyes.
She scraped off the bark in sharp, jerky movements. She inhaled a breath. Focus. Drive every bad thought out. She forced herself to be calm—at least as calm as could be expected in her situation—trapped inside a cage with killer wolves, killer men roaming outside it, waiting to strike.
She made long, sweeping cuts with the grain, carving a rough outline, breathing deep with each stroke. Her hands fell back into the familiar rhythm almost without purposeful thought. Using push and pull cuts, she gently carved the soft shape, the curve of the body, the sweep of the wings, the arc of the head and sharp V of the beak.
Another hour passed. Wood shavings scattered in the leaves beneath her. She smiled grimly down at the little raven, cradling it in her palm, an ache in her chest. She used to leave them around the house for her mother and father both. Only her mother ever noticed them, tucked in her dresser drawer or nestled beneath her pillow.
To her father, they were useless, for they served no purpose. She remembered the punch-in-the-gut feeling the first time he’d swept one into the trash. “Carve a walking stick or a knife handle,” he’d said, already striding toward the door, off to another chore, yet another task. “Something worthwhile.”
How Raven missed them now—both of them—even as she resented them for leaving her behind, abandoned and completely alone, trapped in a nightmare that wouldn’t end.
She’d thought being alone was what she wanted. She was wrong.
The truth was, no matter how much she’d tried to hate her mother, no matter how thick the thorns of resentment and anger had grown around her heart, Raven could not stop loving her. And the loving hurt more than hate ever could.
Because in the end, her mother hadn’t loved her enough to come back.
Raven placed the bird carving on the cold, leaf-strewn ground. She blinked rapidly, fighting back the stinging in her eyes. She didn’t cry. She never cried. Tears were weakness, her father always said—used to say.
A small moan escaped her lips. She shouldn’t think of these things, shouldn’t feel the pain twisting inside her ribs. Not now, when she had to focus every fiber of her being on survival.
She drew her knees up to her chest, shivering, and concentrating on the night sounds. A symphony of crickets. The low haunting hoot of an owl. The skitter of a small creature through the leaves.
Despite the danger, her exhaustion caught up to her. She’d barely slept in three days. More than once, she dozed off, jerking awake with a start at every rustle in the brush, every cracking twig.
She felt, rather than heard, the wolf’s return.
Her eyes snapped open.
Shadow stood less than four feet away. He was staring at her.
He sprang in close, nipping her knee. His fangs ripped a small hole in her pants, scraping against her skin.
Her eyes stung at the sudden pain. She didn’t move.
He was so close the damp musk of his coat filled her nostrils. Hot breath streamed between his opened jaws, pink tongue lolling. Mud coated the bottom of his gigantic paws.
He stood over her, lowered his head, and nipped her calf.
She swallowed a whimper.
He gave her a calculating, inscrutable look, as if he were searching for something. His amber gaze was penetrating, like he was staring right through her, could see every beat of her shuddering heart. A strange, wondrous terror filled her.
Shadow stepped to the side, across her legs, and bumped hard against her shoulder as he passed. He would have knocked her over without the trunk braced at her back.
He circled so close he brushed against her with every turn. His body was solid, all corded muscle, coiled strength and power. His fur was wiry, coarse, and thick.
He didn’t want to hurt her. He was investigating her, m
aking sure she wasn’t a threat—but also checking if she were something he’d enjoy devouring. Each time he brushed against her and she didn’t act like prey or predator, it strengthened his decision to let her be.
Relief cascaded through her. Shadow would let her go. The relief lasted only an instant.
Shadow spun so swiftly her brain barely registered it. He lunged in and snapped, growling deep in his throat, lips curled back from his teeth.
He snarled inches from her face. A spray of saliva struck her cheeks. His hot, wet breath seared her skin.
Terror stopped her breath.
The wolf seized her neck in his jaws.
14
Raven froze. Not swallowing, not breathing, not moving a millimeter.
The wolf’s teeth pricked the flesh over her jugular. His powerful jaws, barely tightened, would pulverize her neck, her spine, and crush the breath from her body.
He could kill her in a heartbeat without even meaning to.
She considered stabbing him with the whittling knife, but that would cause him to bite instinctively. Either way, she was dead.
She was completely helpless. There was nothing she could do but remain still and count the eternal seconds in her mind, willing herself not to panic, to lock her terror somewhere deep inside.
Five seconds passed. Ten. Twenty. Forty-five.
Finally, the wolf released her throat.
She gasped for breath, desperately sucking in oxygen. Still, she kept herself completely motionless. She felt a single bead of blood snake down the side of her neck.
The wolf stepped back and stared at her with his yellow eyes. He didn’t growl or yelp or bare his teeth. He simply watched her, shrewd, assessing.
What was she supposed to do now? He wanted something. Expected her to do something. But what?
Her mind raced, scrolling back through her conversations and observations of her father, all the things he’d taught her about wolf biology and behavior.
It was a test.
This whole night was a test, from the circling to bumping into her to nipping her shoulder and leg. By seizing her neck—one of the most vulnerable parts of the body—he was displaying his power and authority as alpha. He was demonstrating his ability to kill her if he wished.
She had to prove that she understood him. Immediately, she dropped her knife and rolled onto her back, exposing her belly in submission, showing him she knew how absolutely defenseless she was, proving she recognized he was the one with the power. It was a request for trust.
Trust being the one thing she was horrible at.
“You can trust me,” she whispered. “You’re in charge. I respect you as the leader above me.”
Again, he took her throat in his jaws.
She lay there, every muscle taut, staring glassy-eyed at the patches of star-spangled sky through the black branches.
Her heart beat in her throat, pulsing against his jaws.
He squeezed her neck harder. You know what I am capable of, he seemed to say. He was purposefully choosing not to harm her, proving that she could trust him back.
“I understand,” she forced out.
He let go of her neck and stepped back.
He watched as she pulled herself to a sitting position, breathing hard. She rubbed her throat. It was tender, slick with hot saliva, but apart from the single, shallow puncture, she was unharmed.
Relief and astonished awe filled her. He could have killed her, but he didn’t. A true alpha wasn’t the one who used brute force. He was the one who chose not to.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
His ears flicked, and his tail wagged gently.
Shadow trotted away, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder. An invitation. He wanted her to follow him.
She did.
Raven fumbled through the leaves, found her knife, closed it, and shoved it and the carving in her cargo pocket. She rose to her feet, not bothering to comb the leaves from her hair or brush the dirt from her pants.
Her heart pumping, a sharp, wild-edged thrill thrumming through every cell in her body, she followed the wolf through the trees and thick underbrush. He led her to the far right side of the enclosure, where the wolf den, the night house, was located.
She broke into the small clearing and halted.
The white she-wolf, Luna, lurked at the edge of the den entrance. Her hackles lifted, her lips peeling back in a growl. Not fearful, but wary.
Luna was the distrustful one. That made her smart. People could whisper I love you and I miss you while stabbing you in the back. Raven knew that better than most.
She lifted her hands, palms out in a gesture of surrender, and took a step back. Luna’s growl deepened.
Of course. A wolf wouldn’t understand human gestures of surrender. Raven dropped to a hunched sitting position, making herself small and submissive. “I’m not a threat to you. I promise.”
Luna turned her growl on Shadow. He wagged his tail at her. She showed her teeth, reiterating her displeasure at Raven’s presence, clearly an interloper who didn’t belong.
He licked her muzzle, ears pricked hopefully. She snapped at him and sashayed out of reach.
Undaunted, Shadow loped to her and nuzzled her side softly. Her lips pulled back. She gave him a severe, disapproving look before snapping again.
This time, Shadow backed off with a low whimper.
Luna turned and stalked into the den, hackles raised and growling, abandoning Shadow and Raven to the cold.
“She’s mad at you,” Raven said. “I think she would have preferred me for dinner.”
Shadow’s ears and tail drooped in disappointment. He knew rejection when he saw it.
“You and me both,” she dared to whisper.
Shadow rubbed against Raven’s side with a whine, nearly knocking her over again. He circled a few times and flopped to the ground, stretching out beside Raven, so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his large body.
She listened to the sound of his easy, contented panting. She didn’t dare touch him, though she wanted to. She simply watched him, awestruck.
The whole insane night filled her with a marvelous incredulity, fascination, and reverence, along with a host of inexplicable emotions she couldn’t name, let alone describe.
This was what her dad must have felt all those years, so close to the wild creatures he’d loved. It was like she was connected to some hidden, unseen thing greater than herself, united in this moment with the vast, unknowable universe.
Like she’d just touched a dazzling star with her bare hands.
She had not forgotten the danger the bikers posed. She had not forgotten that her father was dead, that her mother had abandoned her, or that the Hydra virus might be proliferating inside her right now, hijacking her cells and turning her own body traitor against her.
She had not forgotten that outside Haven’s wrought-iron walls, the world was descending into chaos.
But this moment was a gift. And she was smart enough, perceptive enough to recognize it for what it was. She felt the shift like tectonic plates beneath her feet, a sharpness in the air, a lightness in her chest.
In that still, small moment, the dying world seemed so far away.
These woods were a separate place full of wonder and enchantment, tangled dreams and wild wishes and stars close enough to touch.
It was magic.
15
Raven awoke to the sound of voices.
It seemed an impossible feat to fall asleep inches from two hundred pounds of lethal predator, but she had.
She went rigid as the loud male voices pierced her consciousness. Instantly, she was wide awake, her heart thumping, ice streaking her veins. Her eyes sprang open. She searched the small clearing, scanning the empty ground on either side of her, the trees towering all around her.
Shadow and Luna had smelled the bikers long before Raven heard them. The wolves had already vanished into their den or hidden somewhere i
n the cluster of pine, elm, and maple trees and heavy underbrush.
Twenty yards and a copse of trees were all that separated the den from the public viewing area along the flagstone path. Wolves were private creatures, her father had always insisted. He’d refused to cut down the trees, even when guests complained.
Now, Raven was grateful for the cover. She sat up slowly, her back aching, a crick in her neck. She ran her tongue over her furry teeth. Her mouth tasted sour. What she wouldn’t give for a toothbrush. Her scalp itched, and she felt unwashed.
She strained to hear the voices over the rumbling of her stomach. She couldn’t catch more than a stray word; she needed to get closer. There were two choices. She could remain hidden—and relatively safe—here, or she could creep closer and try to overhear something useful.
She’d hoped the bikers would be gone by now. They weren’t.
Knowledge is power. One of her father’s favorite phrases. He’d taught her how to take everything in first—details of her surroundings, potential predators, allies, and prey—then act only after analyzing the available information. The more she knew about these thugs, the better.
She crawled on her belly beneath several pine boughs, the scent of sap and dead, crumbling leaves strong in her nostrils. She was careful to brush away sticks and twigs, to make as little noise as possible. Pausing just behind a wide branch, she ensured she was hidden in deep shadows while still offered a clear view.
It was just past dawn. The air was chilly—her breath puffed in white swirls. The sky was like glass, so sharp and clear she could almost believe she could see clear through to heaven, or maybe the future.
Four men leaned against the guardrail, three of them smoking as they gazed into the hybrid enclosure. They all wore guns holstered to their hips, rifles strapped across their brawny shoulders and chests. There was Cerberus, the leader; Ryker, the killer; Jagger, the gaunt, pony-tailed one; and Damien, the young redhead who’d nearly shot Phil.
“You sure you saw it?” asked Cerberus.
