by Rose, Callie
I can’t keep up with what they’re saying. Panic has turned my heart into a fluttering bird in my chest, and their faces and voices are starting to blur together.
The pack? Witches? Wolf-hating?
None of this makes sense, and it’s only exacerbating the fear I’d barely gotten past before they arrived. My panic is clawing its way back full force, stronger than it was before.
I try to hold it in, to control it and contain it. Ridge doesn’t have any plans to hurt me—I’m sure of it. I saw something in his mesmerizing amber eyes before the mob arrived, a kind of protective warmth that barely made sense at the time. We don’t know each other, but he wants to help me.
I believe him.
But voices are rising in anger. Six large people shouting at Ridge about putting the pack in danger, and Ridge facing them down with a stoic, expressionless face and low tones. He looks formidable, more dangerous than any of them could ever hope to be. But it’s still six on one, and I don’t want to be hurt anymore. I don’t want anyone to be hurt.
I can’t take more fucking violence. More anger.
My chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a massive rubber band. I can’t breathe.
As they continue screaming, I clutch at the couch cushions, trying not to fall into the panic attack I know is coming.
Everything that’s happened to me in the last twenty-four hours is catching up to me—the fall down the stairs, seeing Doctor Patil, escaping my uncle, plunging into the ravine, waking up here in this strange cabin, and now this, these raised voices and the obvious animosity dangling in the air between my rescuer and Lawson.
What if Ridge isn’t a nice guy? What if this is all a ruse by my uncle to hurt me? What if these people are going to tear me apart and scatter my pieces in the mountains?
My breaths come faster, ever more painful as I gasp for air. My gaze darts between the people yelling and back to Ridge. I want him to make them go away. I want a chance to catch my breath, to figure out what the hell is going on.
Instead, I feel like I’m on the verge of a heart attack. My body is going to murder me before Clint or anyone else gets the chance.
Tensions soar higher, voices growing deeper and angrier, and suddenly, one of the men in the mob does something… strange. His body begins to morph, to change shape.
It only takes a second, but in my current state of mind, it feels like it takes a lifetime. When it’s over, where he stood on two legs before, a wolf stands in his place.
A large, growling wolf.
And I finally lose it.
The scream that comes from my lips is like nothing I’ve ever emitted in my entire life. Not even in the heat of Uncle Clint’s punishments. Not even when I was little and hadn’t taught myself to bear the pain, to go to another place inside my mind.
I scramble up onto the couch, still screaming, my legs tangling beneath me as I try to get my knees to work so I can run away. My heart pounds against my chest, frantic and demanding, trying to escape the terror inside me.
I see Ridge move. He reaches for me, but I can’t hear his words. Then his face goes hard and he whips back around toward the waiting group, his hands clenching into fists at his side.
The wolf takes a few steps forward, snarling.
What the hell is happening? Why can’t I wake up from this?
“Get the fuck out!” Ridge yells, his words the first sound to cut through my panic.
At his voice, I stop screaming, perched on the headrest of the couch, my fingernails digging into the corduroy. I gulp for breath, clinging to the sound of his deep baritone.
“Out!” Ridge snarls, shoving Lawson toward the door. The bigger man is thrown backward as if Ridge punched him, and he hits the wall hard, shaking the entire house. The wolf backs away with a yip as the other four people all cower a bit too. “And don’t ever fucking question my authority again!”
The entire group scrambles away into the daylight, and Ridge leans out behind them, snarling, “Next time, fucking knock!” before he slams the door on their exit.
Then he looks back at me, and the fury on his face melts away as he strides across the room. He comes around the back of the couch, cupping my face in his hands. “Hey, shh. Shh, it’s okay. They’re gone. You’re okay.”
I’m still sucking in air like a drowning victim. I have tunnel-vision now, black edges sneaking in around my eyesight. Even his voice can’t cut through this. I’m going to die of a heart attack, right here on the back of his couch like I’m a damn cat.
“Look at me.” Ridge says gruffly, breaking through the rush of noise in my head. I obey, clutching at his hands which still hold my face. “You’re having a panic attack. What helps you through this?”
What helps?
A part of me recognizes that he knows this is normal for me. He knows I’ve done this before, again and again, my mind attempting to deal with the abuse that’s become a normal part of my existence. And his perceptive gaze lays bare all of my secrets. It strikes me to my core. Someone knows the depth of my scars, and he wants to know what helps me deal with them.
My teeth chatter as I struggle to reply. “W-w-wat-ter.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Suddenly, I’m being lifted in his arms as if I’m just a child. I wrap my own arms around his neck, burying my face in his skin. There’s that scent, the same woodsy pine scent I woke up to. I breathe it in, my tears soaking his t-shirt as he carries me through the house.
I keep my eyes closed and my face against the warmth of his skin, focusing on his scent because somehow it helps with the panic. So I only realize we’re in the bathroom when I hear the snick of a shower curtain being opened. Then Ridge sets me down on my feet on a soft rug.
But I can’t step away.
The thought of moving away from him sends another rush of panic through me, so I cling tighter. I don’t even know quite why, but he’s become my anchor in this storm, and I’m certain that if I lose my hold on him, I’ll drown.
Ridge doesn’t push me away. He doesn’t mock me for my weakness or leave me to face the demons howling in my head on my own. Instead, he wraps an arm around my waist to hold me in place as he leans forward and turns on the water.
I know I’m going to have to let him go to get beneath the water. As he stands there testing the warmth of it with one hand, I brace myself for the impossible prospect of standing on my own.
But then his other arm comes around my waist, and I’m being lifted into the bathtub. Only… Ridge comes with me.
He managed to kick off his boots, I realize, without me even noticing. He sets me gently down on top of his bare feet, holding me tight to his body. We’re both still fully clothed as the water cascades over us, and I don’t loosen my grip on his neck.
Standing with him like this, I realize just how big he is compared to me. I’m leaning against him, my cheek resting against his broad chest. He drops his head so that his beard tickles my forehead, and his hands smooth gently over the back of my wet t-shirt, keeping me on my feet.
After a few moments, the panic begins to subside. Quicker than usual, even. Back home, in the aftermath of Clint’s rage, I’d stand beneath the water for an hour, until all the warmth was gone and only cold remained, and still feel the effects of my panic attack.
But here, clinging to this stranger who smells like the mountains, this stranger who wants to help me, I find what might be the last scrap of peace inside myself.
My mind goes blank, and I just let the water fall around me, listening to the sound of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
7
Sable
I wake from sleep groggily, my eyelids blinking into clear, early morning light. The curtains on the window are drawn open, and I can see that Ridge closed the window back up sometime while I was asleep. His presence in the room while I slept sends a little shiver down my spine, despite the fact that he’s done nothing but take care of me from the moment he brought me here.
Sleeping is such a vulnerabl
e time.
And I’m terrified of being vulnerable with anyone.
I shove back the covers and gently sit up. My body is stiff and unwieldy, my limbs as heavy as my eyelids, and I scoot back to rest against the headboard and get my bearings. I don’t remember getting out of the shower or falling asleep, but that’s not abnormal for my panic attacks. When my mind goes blank at the tail end of an attack, I operate on autopilot.
I’m wearing some of Ridge’s clothes again. A soft, worn pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt three times too big for me. I realize I’m not wearing a bra or underwear, and I hope to God I took them off myself in the moments after my fully-clothed shower. I hope I changed my own clothes last night, because Ridge already did it once—and that time, he at least kept my underwear on. If I didn’t change myself last night, then he certainly got an eyeful of my body.
The thought sends a new wave of panic skittering through me, but on the heels of that, there’s something else. Something warm. A tingle that travels through my belly, making my breath hitch a little. I can’t quite identify the feeling, but it floods my cheeks with heat.
Regardless of who changed me after the shower, I feel weirdly safe here in Ridge’s bed, wearing his clothes. But I don’t want to hold on to the feeling.
As far as I’m concerned, nowhere is safe. Not here, not the hospital, not back home with my uncle. Life with Clint taught me that people are fundamentally bad and want to hurt me. It’s just human nature to want to hurt each other.
If I expect anything else, I put myself right back in danger.
The cobwebs of sleep continue to slowly recede from my mind, and as they do, I realize something else is different. I’m no longer wearing my wrist brace.
My arm, which ached like a son of a bitch yesterday, barely hurts. My ankle feels better too. Some of the bruises and scrapes I gathered during my flight through the woods are barely visible anymore, although the scars my uncle left on me are still there.
I blink, my throat tightening convulsively.
How long was I asleep for?
There’s a brief knock at the door, then Ridge calls through the thick wood, “Are you awake? I brought breakfast.”
My heart skips a beat, and for a moment, I think I’m about to have yet another damn panic attack. But then I realize that’s not it at all. It’s his voice making my heart skip, and in a way I’m not accustomed to.
“I’m awake,” I call out, my voice scratchy and rough.
“May I come in?”
I’m floored by the question. Uncle Clint would have just barged in—it’s my fucking house, kid. Ridge is giving me the option to turn him away, something I was never allowed back home.
All I can manage is a strangled, “Yes!” that comes out a little too high-pitched as a strange mix of emotions flood my chest.
The door opens, and Ridge walks in holding a small tray that bears a steaming mug and a plate. His ash-brown hair is rumpled and the black t-shirt he’s wearing molds to his muscles, giving him a strong, dangerous air that makes my heart rate ratchet. I have to remind myself he’s a friend who has no intention of hurting me.
Even so, when he gives me a tentative smile, his honeyed eyes on mine as he sets the tray over my legs, panic rears its ugly head.
“I hope you like eggs and bacon,” he says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “It’s all I had.”
His closeness strikes a chord of leftover terror in me. Coupled with the panic, it sends me into a spiral, and I scoot away, sloshing coffee over the edge of the mug as I jar the tray with my legs.
Ridge’s eyes soften, and he gets up, walking to the pile of laundry in the corner where he extracts a dirty shirt. He keeps his movements slow and both of his hands in my field of vision as he mops up the spilled coffee.
“I didn’t know if you liked milk and sugar in your coffee,” he says, carefully dabbing up the last of the liquid. “So I brought you both.”
I swallow hard as he moves away. He tosses the shirt back into the laundry pile, then moves to the very bottom of the bed, choosing the side that puts him as far away from me as possible.
A lump rises in my throat at his generosity, and at the way he seems to understand what I need just from my crazy reactions. The rapid thudding of my heart slows, and as it does, my stomach lets out an unholy growl.
Jesus. How long has it actually been since I last ate? I’ve lost track of time almost completely, but this is the second day I’ve woken up in this man’s bed. He must’ve gotten me to at least drink some water after my panic attack yesterday, because my mouth doesn’t feel too dry and cottony.
Ridge gives me a gentle, somewhat amused smile as I press a hand over my stomach. The way one corner of his lips tilts a little higher than the other makes him look rugged and slightly rough around the edges, just like everything else about him.
Dragging my gaze away from his full lips, I reach out and tentatively pick up a piece of bacon. The plate is a plain turquoise with a darker bottom and looks handmade, while the small coffee mug declares MONTANA in bold lettering, with an artistic rendering of the state’s natural features below that. Neither dish goes together aesthetically, yet somehow, they work.
“What’s your name?” Ridge asks softly, drawing my attention back to him.
I hesitate, then bite into the bacon, tearing off half the strip. I take my time chewing, my gaze fixed on the steam rising from my mug. I’m not sure I should tell him my name, although I can’t exactly pinpoint where that worry comes from.
What kind of power would he have over me if I did? What if Clint has missing person posters up and Ridge turns me over?
But some tiny part of me that goes against my own sense of self-preservation wants to trust this man. Something inside me is drawn to him, feels safe with him—almost as if I’ve known him for years instead of less than forty-eight hours.
I swallow my bacon past a throat that’s gone dry as the desert, then flick my gaze up to meet his as I say, “I’m Sable.”
Ridge’s eyes darken as he hears my name, the amber color shifting to a hue like burnished gold, and the change sends another tingle over me. Exactly how I felt when I thought of him seeing me naked when he changed my clothes. Something warm and intoxicating deep in my body.
I know what it is, I think. It’s just not something I’ve ever really felt before.
And I still have no idea what it means. So I deflect with the most burning question I’ve had since yesterday afternoon.
“Was it real?” I ask, reaching for another strip of bacon. “The wolf in your living room? He was a man… and then he was a wolf.”
Ridge narrows his eyes at me, not in anger like Uncle Clint used to, but as if he’s carefully constructing his next statement. I can’t really blame him for seeming to walk on eggshells around me—I haven’t proven to be the most stable of individuals since he opened his home to me. Even now, balancing on this precarious ledge where he’s about to tell me whether I hallucinated that or not, I’m on the borderline of losing my nerve again.
“What you saw really happened,” he finally says, clearly deciding not to try to sugarcoat or dance around the truth.
I suck in a breath, putting the bacon back down quickly before my shaking fingers drop it on the clean sheets. “Jesus.”
“I need you to understand that you’re safe here,” he rushes to add. He places a palm on the mattress between us, as if he wishes he could place it on my arm in comfort. I manage to keep myself from shrinking away again, although maybe that’s just because my brain is too busy trying to wrap its head around what he just told me.
“Are you… a wolf too?”
The words come out strangled. The first revelation already threatened to overwhelm me, but if the answer to this is yes…
I have an itch to run. Again. How can I be safer in the hands of weird man-wolf hybrids than I would be alone in the wilderness?
“Yes, I’m a wolf shifter. But we’re not a threat to you.” Ridge’s deep vo
ice is calm and measured. “We pose no threat to human communities. My pack is peaceful. We keep to ourselves mostly, and we keep our existence secret from ordinary humans. It’s safer for everybody that way.”
Threatened with an overload of emotion, I focus on the one thing that really sticks out. “Your pack. There’s more than one pack?”
“There used to be four. But we’re down to three after—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “There are only three now.”
I don’t know what he was about to say, but questions are crowding my mind, clogging my brain as they pile up on top of each other. It’s hard for me to keep hold of a single train of thought for too long as I try to process everything that’s happened to me.
Holding up my left hand, I wiggle the fingers, surprised all over again that I can do it without pain. “What happened to my wrist? It was… it was hurt. Sprained. And my ankle…”
“Yeah.” Ridge’s eyes harden, but I don’t think the anger in them is directed at me. “I had our healer come take a look at your injuries. She was able to patch up the worst of them, including your arm and your ankle.” His brows pull together, and he scans my body quickly. “Are you hurt anywhere else? I can bring her back if you are.”
“No. No, I’m okay.”
I really don’t feel pain anywhere else, and I’m relieved to hear that the healer is a woman. But I don’t think I could handle being touched or examined by another stranger right now.
“All right.” Ridge leans back a little, a look of relief crossing his face. “Well, just tell me if—”
He cuts off, turning away from me and craning his ear toward the window. The glass is closed, and I don’t hear anything for several seconds.
Then a chorus of howls pierce the silence, faint in the distance but loud enough for me to pick up on.
“Fuck me,” Ridge growls, standing abruptly. He shoves a hand through his messy brown hair, then drags his palm down his face, closing his eyes as if to brace himself. When he opens his eyes, he levels that honey gaze on me, grimacing slightly. “I have to go.”
