Unwilling: a shifter romance

by Hannah L. Corrie

  A mixture of surprise and cold dread washed over Jared's exhausted face. Darwin had called home? On a land line? "Please tell me you're joking," he croaked, coiling his hand around the banister next to the stairs with more force than necessary. The wood groaned beneath his fingers.

  "My d-dad wouldn't rat us out, Jared," Darwin fumbled, unable to meet the Alpha's eyes. "He knows everything now, he's promised to help us! He's on our side!"

  The world crumbled around Jared, pushing him out of balance and forcing him to lean on the cracking banister. He knew Darwin hadn't meant any harm by what he had done, but that didn't matter. Wouldn't matter, if the Banes pack Alpha wasn't a total moron. Crazy people didn't reach the top of the food chain by being morons, they got there by being ingenious. The need to beat the shit out of Darwin for endangering himself and his pack buckled beneath the weight of fear for their lives, sending Jared in a confused tailspin. What should he do? What could he do? How long did they have?

  Jared turned around, exhaustedly trying to sort through his muddled thoughts. "Darla, assemble the others, we gotta leave," he said, walking back into the cabin. They would have to take the food, pack their clothes and leave as quickly as possible, maybe go to Canada and find a safe place until Jared finished his training with Hector. But was that even an option anymore? Hector needed to be warned about Carl and the force of dominants on their way to Renton right this minute. Hector wouldn't be pleased. A whole other pack with no submissives, invading the territory of an established pack and all but inviting Hector's Alpha pack to join the fight, definitely broke the truce Jared had negotiated, especially if he ran instead of fighting back. But fighting back with only two dominants by his side would be suicide. No, running was the only choice left.

  "Rayne, tell Harry to pack all the food and drinks and stuff everything else useful into the car. Carl has been warned and is on his way," barked Jared as soon as he was inside the cabin.

  In the chaos erupting after that order nobody noticed the lone figure outside turning and walking off into the woods.

  George

  They came at night, long after Mary had gone to sleep. Three figures in dark clothing crept out of the surrounding woods, circling the house just as careful as they would have been with any other pack member, trying to find a good spot to enter unnoticed. George was almost proud to be treated this way, like a real person, like a dangerous person. Almost. Killing pack members, even those intent on doing the same to him, certainly didn't count as a happy occasion.

  Carmen had never shown up for their secret meeting, but she had called Mary and explained that she had been ordered to guard the pack house and would come by the next day. It had tipped George off. There was no reason to have a teenage girl guard the pack house, except if they had found out about Darwin, his whereabouts, and the contact he had made with George.

  Now George sat in the shadows next to the stairs, his hunting rifle slung awkwardly over his shoulders, the left hand trifling with all the little bumps and ridges along the shaft and muzzle, waiting. He didn't know what exactly he was waiting for— to see who was ready to kill a cripple, or to pull one over their heads—, but the decision had been made. If he was to die, he would go down shooting, fighting, with bared teeth and claws, like the enforcer he was. Had been. Had never stopped being.

  It took them a while to find the window in the kitchen, the one George left unlocked in case someone came to kill him, but they took the bait. The soft crunch of sugar grains beneath hard boots wouldn't be heard upstairs, not even with werewolf hearing, but it echoed well enough for George to hear from his hiding spot. He resolutely cocked the rifle, clumsier than usual with just his left arm in working order, but the intruders moved slow, careful, unhurried. They didn't want him and Mary to hear them coming, kill them in their sleep and be done with the whole affair.

  It was a good plan, in theory.

  George wasn't mobile enough to use the viewfinder to its full extent, but the years of hunting had left him with enough knowledge to forgo the proper targeting and still hit what he wanted to hit. He quietly set the lower half of the barrel onto the banister, put his finger on the trigger and waited, listening to the muted, all but inaudible sounds of movement from the kitchen.

  Whiffs of all familiar scents wafted into the stair well, tugging at his heart and lungs with all the memories he associated with them. George identified Greta and Dennis, which didn't surprise him. Those two had always been more unhinged than the others, easier to rile up, more ready to go overboard and cross lines. Had George been the one planning the assassination attempt, he would have gone with those two, too. The third one wasn't as easy. Before the phone call with Darwin, George would have put his money on Rayne as the balancing force to Greta's and Dennis' anger issues, but Rayne had proven loyal and wasn't anywhere near Banes. This left George with too many choices and too few chances to find out who he was dealing with.

  Whoever it was, he would die just as easily as Greta and Dennis. Silver bullets saw to that.

  One of the three crept towards the living room, away from the door frame George was targeting and into an area that would sooner or later put him at George's right side. It was the one thing he had hoped to avoid, since he didn't see any chance to point the rifle in that direction without the use of his right arm. The other two were more accommodating, walking towards the area George was actually pointing the muzzle at, but one of them stopped right in the door, his back turned towards George, blocking the line of sight on the third person.

  "Gotcha," George hissed. The first shot thundered through the house before Dennis could turn around completely, spraying the wooden door frame with dark blood and sending him to the floor gasping.

  "Shit! Dennis!" he could hear Greta scream. George tightened his grip on the weapon, moving the barrel until it pointed down at the dying man, smiling a cold, lopsided smile against the wooden shoulder piece.

  Greta came into view, trying to grab Dennis and pull him out of the killing zone, only to be hit by the second, deafening shot. She crumpled onto Dennis' body with nothing more than a gurgling sigh, instantly killed by the gaping hole through her head.

  Then there was only silence, mixed with the heavy dripping of blood on the hardwood floor. George gingerly moved the barrel up and to the right corner of the door frame, hoping for a glimpse of the third man when— if— he came to rescue his mates. Somewhere above, he could hear Mary get dressed as swiftly and silently as possible.

  A blade touched his throat, freezing him on the spot.

  "They thought you were a drooling idiot, you know?" Graham whispered, looming over George's wheelchair like a vengeful shadow. "Thought the job was shameful, killing a cripple in his bed and all that, but that's what you get for being arrogant."

  Graham was the one choice person George would have never guessed as the third killer. It was all but unthinkable to imagine the quiet, reclusive car mechanic as anything but a watchful spectator of the pack goings-on, but here he was, blade in hand, ready to do what Carl couldn't do: Kill him.

  "So you're the one to finish me off? Are you not yet tired of doing the dirty work for a madman, Graham?" George said, careful to keep his voice even and low.

  Graham laughed haughtily. It was the first time George had ever heard the man laugh, and even now it sounded sad and dry. "What else is there to do? What else is left? If I do it, I won't be able to look at myself ever again. But if I don't do it, I won't be able to look at anything ever again, being dead and all," he mused, pressing the blade tighter to George's throat, tight enough to pull a little blood. "Carl has killed everyone who stood in his way, except for you and Darwin. And here I am, fixing one half of that shortcoming. The only thing I'd get out of switching sides is my own death."

  Somewhere outside, the wind rattled the window shutters. George allowed himself a small smile, choosing his words carefully. "You could find out if what Carl told you is the truth. You could ask why Carl is trying to kill me. You could even talk to C
armen if you don't trust my words, but don't you butter me up with this fatalistic crap, Graham. You've always got a choice, always."

  Graham hesitated, the blade shivered away from George's throat. It wasn't much and George wasn't out of danger, but the metal didn't cut into him anymore. "What truth, George? That Carl's idealistic dream of a pack without submissives won't work? I know that already. I'll be a cloud of dust on the horizon as soon as I see my opening, but right now, everyone disappearing or trying to run is marked a traitor and hunted down. I've got a wife and a kid on the way two towns over, I won't risk them."

  The kitchen window creaked softly, just like it had when the three had broken into his house, but George had other things to worry about. There were no known werewolves living in the perimeter of Banes, which meant that Graham had married a human and not told anyone. A human wife, pregnant as it seemed, and therefor an easy victim for Carl's blackmailing attempts. He had to think fast now.

  "So you don't ever wonder where all our submissives have gone? Do you really believe they decided to leave their spouses, fathers, mothers, brothers, kids, just like that? All of them?" George pressed, trying to keep his eyes off the kitchen door as to not arouse any suspicions. "Don't you wonder what happened to Giselle? Or why Darwin rather left the pack than deal with Carl any longer?"

  "Stop it with the riddles, old man, I'm getting tired of this conversation. Say your piece and let's end this," Graham snarled and the pressure of the razor sharp blade to George's throat returned. What little time George had left, it was running out.

  Well, Graham had asked for it, hadn't he?

  "Carl killed all the submissives, including his pregnant wife, my mother, Giselle and who knows how many others, and he tried to kill Darwin too. Darwin didn't just change loyalties to some stranger, that stranger saved him from attempted murder and Carl was the one who left them no choice but to run. And now Carl is starting to kill off dissidents, like me. Do you truly think he'll stop when he's done with my family? Do you really believe he'll simmer down after this, this killing spree?—"

  George would have liked to say so many more things but couldn't, as Mary chose that exact moment to jump Graham from behind and wrestle his knife-bearing arm away.

  They tumbled towards the front door, snarling and growling at each other as both tried to gain the upper hand. Graham would have won, sooner or later, as superhuman strength ceased to matter when both possessed it and physical proportions came into play, but George didn't plan on letting this go that far. He pointed the rifle and shot, blasting a fist-sized hole into his front door, right above their heads. "That's enough!"

  Shocked, frozen silence ensued. Mary held Graham by the throat, kneeling on his back and ready to end his life with a single tug. George felt a trickle of blood run down his throat where the knife had left its mark. This was heading towards a bad path.

  "I don't want you dead, Graham, you're a good guy," George said, trying to ignore the increasing pain in his straining arm and the tickling of blood drops falling on his chest. "But I've got to help my boy and that means stopping Carl, whatever it takes. I can't trust you not to interfere, can I?"

  By now, Graham face was turning half white with fear and half red with exertion. He tried to wiggle beneath Mary's much smaller bulk to find a position that made it easier to breathe, but her tightening grasp around his throat froze him. George didn't want to kill the man, or rather, have Mary kill him. Graham was lethargic and quiet, but when he decided to talk his words always had merit to them, a calm, objective view that most other werewolves in the Banes pack lacked. Losing him meant losing another voice of reason, something else the Banes pack didn't have much of.

  But what other way was there?

  "We could take him with us, hide somewhere," Mary suggested tensely. She used her whole body to keep Graham down and that wouldn't work forever. Time was slipping through their fingers.

  "No! If I disappear, Carl will know something's off," Graham protested, bucking against her weight until she squeezed the will to fight out of him.

  "And we should care why, exactly? You came here to kill us," Mary bit out.

  George fought to keep the rifle pointed at Graham, but his strength was fading quickly. Mary was right, of course. He shouldn't care less what happened to Graham. It would be better to simply kill him and be done with it, to spare him the torture of seeing his wife and unborn child be killed and to keep him from blabbing where they were headed, but his finger just wouldn't pull the trigger.

  "I really don't want to kill you, but we have limited choices at the moment," he said at last. "Mary could kill you right now so the others can find your body. Your wife would be safe until her child reaches puberty and rips her to shreds. We could tie you up and hope the pack won't come looking for you until we're far enough away, or we could simply come to an agreement. You hide the bodies of Dennis and Greta, go back and tell Carl that you finished us off, we disappear. And Carl will be dealt with on another day."

  Mary loosened her grip on Graham's throat enough to allow him to answer. Graham gasped for air, each breath a painful rattle. When he finally calmed down, he relaxed beneath Mary's grip, resting his cheek on the wooden floor.

  "What do you have in mind?" he gurgled.

  Darwin

  Jared's words snapped at Darwin's heels as he turned away from the cabin and walked, then jogged towards the woods. What had he done? Why was his mate so angry? His father would never give them away, Jared had to know that! But then, Jared hadn't seemed angry about calling his father specifically, but about calling him on a land line. Why was that important? Certainly Carl wasn't able to find out about that, or was he?

  Holy mother Mary, what had he done? And how many times was Jared supposed to forgive him for endangering everyone's lives? No. No more.

  It was better this way. At least that was what Darwin told himself as he stumbled through the underbrush surrounding their impromptu territory, away from the cabin and the new uproar he had caused. Darla had told him of her intentions to leave and Rayne and Harry would make a run for it, too, sooner or later. He had ruined their lives, ripped them out of their homes, taken their futures and dumped them in the deepest hinterlands, just to keep himself safe. And what had they gained in return? Nothing but heartbreak. Even Jared was losing his calm and that was something Darwin couldn't deal with. Being hated by his mate woke a special kind of pain in him, one he would do almost anything to stop.

  Darkness all but swallowed the woods, making it hard to find a path through the trees and bushes. Darwin stumbled a few times, scratched his arms in a thorn thicket, bumped his shoulder against a fir tree and almost rolled down a steep incline that suddenly appeared in his way, but none of that could dampen his resolve to run as far away from his friends as possible. The cold air hurt his lungs and threatened to seep into his body, but Renton couldn't be that far anymore and once there, he would find a way to keep warm and move faster.

  The others would try to find him at first. They were good, loyal friends, after all. But they would get over it, over him. They would realize that life was better without him, without the burden he was, and they would start living their own lives again.

  A tree branch slapped his face, snapping back as if to chastise him and leaving a fiery trail burning across his cheek. The pain was enough to lose a few tears over, which in turn blinded Darwin more and ultimately made him stumble and fall face-first into a ditch filled with fist-sized rocks and a generous, cushioning sheet of old leaves.

  It made the tears only fall harder. With a big sob, Darwin curled into a ball of misery, buried his face in the crook of his arm and cried his heart out. All the fear, the pain, the misery he had been in for weeks, broke out of him and washed over his mind like a wave until there was nothing left to fuel the breakdown.

  When Darwin came up for air, his eyes were puffy and reddened, his nose swollen and his mouth dry, but at least he felt a little calmer, a little more collected. The breakdown hadn't cha
nged his mind about what he was doing, but it had taken away the urgency, leaving him with renewed determination. Sniffing, he got back on his feet, brushed away a few leaves and sticks, and started running again.

  The others had most likely realized he was missing by now and were starting to search for him. Jared would have to make a decision; either have the pack look for Darwin and risk all their lives, or relocate them and then go find him. Darwin wasn't sure which way Jared would rather choose, so he kept going at as fast a pace as he was able to, just in case they were already on his heels.

  The way down the woody hills took some time, but the walking kept Darwin warm. When he reached the outskirts of Renton, it was the middle of the night and the streets were empty, houses dark and nobody to be found. Darwin walked around for a bit, trying to decide which direction best to take and getting colder and colder with the lack of exertion, when he found a roadhouse on the outskirts of the town. Light was shining through the dirty windows and he could hear country music playing, mixed with shouts and laughter. A half dozen trucks and pickups were parked in front of it.

  Darwin eyed the run-down building skeptically. Two sides were covered with wooden sidings that had seen better days in the last century, the other sides were either painted in a steel-blue color or dirty enough to cover the original paint job from top to bottom. The windows were dusted with road dirt and nicotine stains and garbage towered around a waste bin at the left side in an impressive heap of broken glass and left-overs. The smell of stale beer and spilled gasoline hung heavy in the air, even at night and in the cold. In the day, the stench was probably bad enough to burn off his nose hairs.

  Hitchhiking was dangerous business and something Darwin would have never tried under normal circumstances. Sadly, right now it seemed like his best choice to slip away. He still had his werewolf strength if anyone got frisky with him.