For the first time since his human appearance in the forest had shocked me, I wondered if whoever had been chasing him out woods wasn’t, in fact, a who at all—but a what.
Back in that clearing, I had assumed he’d been caught by hunters of the normal human sort. And yet, I could have sworn there was someone or something circling us as I carried him back to my Jeep.
That had to be my imagination. Right?
I’d spent the entire drive to my cabin wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.
I carried the unconscious fox the rest of the way into my home. I wasn’t really set up to care for wounded animals, but I did have a pretty serious first aid kit, including a kit for stitching up wounds.
I also had an old dog crate that was left over from my last dog, Major, who had died peacefully in his sleep at a ripe old age of almost seventeen.
It seems impolite to put a werefox in a dog cage.
I carried him into the front room downstairs and glanced around, frowning. Where should he sleep? I didn’t really have very many options in the sparsely furnished space.
“What if you shift in your sleep?” In that case, the loveseat would be too small, and the only other piece of furniture in my tiny living room area was a single chair.
The loft upstairs had been converted to an office space when I first moved in. From there, I ran my law-enforcement consulting business.
“Nope,” I said aloud. “No place for fox shifters upstairs.”
All that left was my room. I hovered inside the bedroom door, glancing between the fox in my arms and the bed where I was actually considering putting him.
“I have lost my frickin’ mind.”
I went back and forth between considering what I would do with a werefox and what I would do if I’d simply hallucinated the man in the clearing.
Not that I’d ever hallucinated before.
If he was a fox shifter, it might be dangerous to put in my bed for all the same reasons that it would be dangerous to put a human male I didn’t know in my bed.
And if I’d hallucinated, it was insane to put a wild animal in my bed.
So here I was, standing in the doorway of my bedroom, holding a fox wrapped in my coat, and trying to decide whether or not to tuck it into my bed. I sighed and glanced down at him. If he hadn’t tried to bite me when I was removing him from a bear trap, then he was unlikely to attack me while I slept. And if he really was a werefox...
“To hell with it. You’re hurt, you’re unconscious, and I’m exhausted. Let me see what I can do to help you heal.”
The fox didn’t stir, and if it hadn’t been for the feel of his breathing, I might not have known he was still alive.
I ought to clean him up first. I knew it. He had gashes on his back and a broken leg. The leg needed to be set, the gashes washed out and possibly stitched. But I was not equipped for any of that. The vet’s office in town was closed, and I wasn’t about to call the emergency vet out for a fox. She would think I had lost my mind.
Instead, I settled him against a pillow, still wrapped in my coat.
Then I went out to the living room to make myself a cup of coffee.
Or maybe a stiffer drink than that.
I WOKE IN THE MIDDLE of the night to the sound of someone coughing in my bedroom. I sat straight up on the loveseat in my tiny living room. I’d been right—it was far too small for me, much less a full-sized human version of a fox-shifter. I stood up and stretched my sore arms as I moved toward the bedroom, with a detour to the kitchen—I didn’t know what fox-shifters ate, but I was absolutely certain that he would drink water.
I moved through the cabin in the dark, my step sure in the moonlight streaming through the window. As I moved into the bedroom, though, I turned on a lamp, the one with the lowest-wattage bulb.
Even though I’d heard him cough, even though I’d seen him outlined in the moonlight when I walked in, I still gasped and took a step back when I saw the man in my bed.
He was gorgeous. I’d only gotten a glimpse of him for a few seconds when he had flickered into view in the clearing. But now that I could see more of him—he’d pushed the blankets down to his waist—he was broad-chested and muscular, his hair the same golden-red as his coat in his fox form. Stubble on his chin and cheeks glinted in the moonlight, and I found myself going off on a tangent for a second wondering how a shapeshifter dealt with shaving.
His eyes were still closed—I was pretty sure he was unconscious. I moved closer until I was standing over him. I reached down to feel his forehead. But before I could touch him, his eyes snapped open and his hand flew up to grab my wrist.
His eyes caught the lamplight and reflected it back at me, so that they seemed to glow with a bright golden sheen.
He growled inarticulately.
“I’m just checking your temperature,” I said. “I want to help you.” I kept talking, hoping to get through to him, even as his hand tightened around my wrist, threatening to crush it. “You’re hurting me. Please let go. I’m here to help. Just want to see if you have a fever.” I tried to infuse my voice with all the combined authority and caring that I had learned to exercise as a police officer. “Sir, you need to let go of me. You’re safe.”
I repeated myself several times, like a mantra, until slowly, he loosened his fingers and opened his hand to turn me loose.
“Can I check to see if you have a fever now?” I asked.
“I don’t think you’ll be able to tell,” he finally rasped out at me. “I run hotter than most people on a normal day.”
Despite how sick he obviously was, I couldn’t help the thought that ran through my head.
Oh, yeah. You’re definitely hotter than most people.
7. Bennet
I FELT HER COOL TOUCH before I recognized anything else.
I was lost in the woods, running through the dark, and there was snow, but it was hot, so hot. I shivered even as I rushed to get out of the trap the elf hunters had set. I was burning and cold at the same time.
No. That wasn’t right. They hadn’t caught me.
They circled me, but an angel came and saved me.
My bones ached, and I fought to roll over, but the hunter’s trap held me in its vice.
No. She had taken me from there. God, where was I now?
When I finally made my way out of the confusion that enveloped me, I awoke briefly in a dark room, something reaching for me. I stopped the hand coming toward me, but her voice finally got through to me.
Right.
She had saved me.
I spoke to her for the first time, watching her eyes flare with blue-white light as I did. And then I dropped back down against the pillows, letting her take my temperature.
Outside the small cabin, the Winter Court fae prowled, their whispering voices sending shivers up my spine.
We’re waiting, they hissed at me. You must come out eventually.
Or was it just the wind?
After a few minutes, I dropped back into my feverish sleep.
The touch of her hand followed by a cool cloth laid across my forehead almost woke me up again sometime later.
And then she started singing. Not the wordless hum I’d heard in the Jeep, but I couldn’t understand these words, either. It was like my ears were stuffed full of cotton and I couldn’t paw it out, no matter how hard I shook my head and clawed at it.
“Shh.” She lifted the cloth and replaced it a moment later, once again cool and soothing. Then she pulled the covers off my chest and arms and wiped those down, too.
I shivered, and she pulled the sheet back over me, and when she began singing again, that invisible blue smoke filled the room, and the elves’ hisses turned to cries, and they were gone.
WHEN I FIRST OPENED my eyes after my fever broke, she stood over me, glowing like some kind of angel.
Or maybe one of the fucking winter elves out hunting me tonight.
A blue-white halo of light surrounded her, and I blinked to try to thr
ow off sleep, to figure out where I was and who had me.
It took me a long time to figure out what was going on. The longer I stared at her, though, the more that glow faded until I could see the woman beneath it.
She was beautiful—not like a supermodel, but real. She had shiny, chestnut-colored hair that just brushed her shoulders, a small nose that turned up a little at the end, and blue eyes that looked right through me, all the way to my soul. At least, that’s how it felt once my vision resolved and I could meet her gaze with mine.
I let her take my temperature with a thermometer after she touched my forehead with her cool, slim fingers.
“Hot is an understatement,” she muttered, scowling at my forehead as if it were to blame. She frowned at me. “Do you know what your temperature usually is?”
I ran a hand across my eyes. “101, 102 degrees? Something like that. Fever range for most people.” I glanced up at her to see how she was taking the whole kitsune thing.
She frowned down at the digital thermometer in her hand after I’d held it in my mouth until it beeped. “Can you take Tylenol or ibuprofen? Anything to lower your fever?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never taken any kind of medicine before.” My head pounded, and I realized I was shivering. But I felt hot. I couldn’t decide whether to pull the covers up or push them off entirely.
She chewed on her bottom lip with straight, white, even teeth, and even in my weakened, feverish state, I found the gesture endearing.
Endearing? What the hell is wrong with me?
Somehow, though, every move she made absolutely entranced me. I didn’t know if it was the fever causing my intense attraction...or something else.
“What are you?” she asked, almost conversationally, as she turned to pick up a glass of water that she must have brought in with her—I certainly hadn’t seen it during my occasional lucid moments since she brought me in here, though I remembered drinking from a straw the night before.
I struggled to sit up, and she rested her hand on my back, offering some combination of support and assistance.
I took the water from her and drank it. When I handed it back to her, I simply said, “thank you.”
She waited for another moment to see if I answered her question, then said, “let me see your leg.”
I hesitated to show her. It was healed from shifting, but I knew it would take a couple more shifts before the bone was really strong again.
Still, I owed my life to this woman, whoever she was, so I threw back the covers to let her see my left leg.
Her gaze flickered across my midsection then focused on my leg. A delicate pink blush flowed up her face.
Right. Human.
Shifters didn’t have the same sense of modesty that humans did. We spent too much time in nature, and when we were shifting back and forth, clothes were a hindrance. A lot of shifters I knew wore them only for warmth when they were in their human shapes.
“It’ll be completely better in a day or two,” I said, gesturing at my leg.
“That’s amazing,” she murmured, peering intently at it. “I could have sworn it was broken.”
“It was. But my shift in the night began the healing process. Your healing song helped further it.”
“My healing song?” She seemed genuinely confused.
“The one you sang last night as you nursed me?”
The frown creasing her brow cleared. “Oh. That’s just an old lullaby my mother used to sing to me. She said her father sang it to her.”
Was it possible this woman really believed she was fully human? I might not have come across her type before, but it was clear she had some sort of powers.
And she doesn’t even know what she is.
8. Darcy
“IF YOU FEEL UP TO EATING this morning, I’m about to cook some oatmeal for myself...” I paused, realizing I didn’t even know what to call him. “I’m Darcy Pemberley, by the way.”
As introductions went, it was a little awkward. After all, I’d seen him naked, nursed him through a fever—and although he didn’t know it, fallen asleep beside him for at least part of the night.
He answered as if it were not at all strange, though. “Bennet Austen.”
“I also have chicken soup, if you’d prefer?” I had some vague idea that foxes liked chicken. Or was that eggs?
Am I being racist? Or species-ist, I guess.
“Either is fine.” His deep voice was quiet, but it filled the room at the same time. I found it comforting.
Which is also weird. You don’t know him, Darcy. Don’t get too cozy.
Speaking of not getting too comfortable, I needed to find that man some pants. Damn, he was gorgeous. I hadn’t meant to peek at all of him when he threw the covers back, but some things are worth catching a glimpse of—like, for example, the completely naked, muscular form of Bennet Austen. In my bed.
Did I mention naked?
Gorgeous didn’t begin to cover it.
“Cover it,” I muttered aloud.
“Excuse me?” Bennet frowned.
My face flamed hot. I could only imagine how red I must be. I’d been living by myself too long and had gotten too used to talking to myself. “Just trying to remember where I put the lid to the soup pot.”
What a stupid excuse. Get yourself together, Darcy.
I needed to quit thinking about him being naked in my bed. He was injured and in no shape to do any of the things my imagination insisted on showing me every time I blinked. Clothes. I needed to concentrate on getting some clothes on that man.
Somewhere I had an old boyfriend’s sweatpants and t-shirt from back in my police academy days. I dug through the bottom drawer of the tall-boy dresser beside the bed until I found them.
“Here you go,” I said, dropping the folded clothes on the bed next to him. “These should do until you’re....” My voice trailed off. Until he was what? “Better,” I finished lamely.
At which point, I supposed, he would shift back to his fox shape and take off into the woods again.
It was good for me to remember that he was not only just a visitor, but a non-human visitor. As pretty as he might be—and oh, lord, he was—he wouldn’t be in my cabin any longer than it took him to finish healing.
I realized I’d been standing there staring at him as he sat up in bed and pulled on the t-shirt. He reached for the covers to throw them off, and I spun around.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” I announced in a slightly strangled voice. “You can come out to the living room once you’re dressed, if you want to.”
I fled at the sound of him stepping out of bed, shutting the door behind me.
It was ridiculous in some ways. I shouldn’t be afraid of my own fantasies. It’s not like he could read my mind.
Could he?
He’s not even human.
I kept repeating that to myself over and over, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of my mind that kept responding with, I don’t care.
WHEN BENNET EMERGED from my bedroom, I was at the stove, cooking the oatmeal. It had taken me a long time to learn to cook in the high altitude. Everything took longer and required different ingredient proportions.
But I’d finally figured it out, so I was at least able to do the basics. Which might be a really good thing, if the clouds rolling in were any indication. I’d need to check the weather after breakfast.
I glanced back at Bennet, who was staring down at the Dallas Police Academy logo on the front of his shirt. “Are you some kind of cop?”
“No—just a consultant. I basically work with various departments to help them streamline some of their processes. I’m a paper-pusher, not a cop.”
He stared at me so intently with those golden eyes of his that it made me nervous. “But you used to be.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Yeah.”
He padded over to the loveseat and sat, easily taking up more than half the space. “So what made you quit?”
“I got
hit by a bullet at a crime scene that was supposed to be secured.”
“Hit where?”
I turned to face him and pointed to my left shoulder before going back to stirring the oatmeal with my wooden spoon. “It missed anything vital, but it scared me. And worse, I’d already been considering leaving the job when it happened.”
“Why?”
I spooned oatmeal into two heavy Fiestaware bowls and loaded them onto a tray with sugar and cream. “I realized that I had seen one too many crime scenes. That last one would have made me walk away even if I hadn’t gotten hit.”
His voice was quiet as I set the tray down on the small coffee table in front of him. “Bad, huh?”
I sat in the straight-back chair and handed Bennet his bowl, gesturing for him to help himself to the cream and sugar. “The worst. I couldn’t stand the thought of what people did to each other.” I laughed, but the sound was harsh and hollow. “Anyway, my recovery from the shooting gave me plenty of time to think about what I really wanted out of my life.”
“That turned out to be a cabin up in the mountains, I guess?”
“More or less. I got a phone call from an attorney here in Assumption who said he’d tracked me down as the only relative of William Pemberley, who’d died six months earlier.” My wave encompassed the cabin, the land, all of it around us. “I had inherited everything. Once I had the okay from my doctors, I headed up here, cleaned out this place—not that there was much here to begin with—and made it my home.”
“And now you’re a police consultant.”
“Online, mostly.” I pointed to the stairs leading up to my loft.
We ate our oatmeal companionably, and as soon as he was done, I said, “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“I told you almost my entire life. Now it’s your turn.” I gave him the smile I’d used with countless suspects, the one that said I’m your friend, you can trust me. “How did you end up in that trap in the woods?”
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