by Viola Rivard
“Shut up,” Ian said. “We're not like that.”
“You could be,” she said coyly. “You have to lock that down before another Fedora-wearing loser beats you to it.”
“Jo isn't my type.”
Harper gave a soft sigh. “And like I told you the night we met, you're not my type.”
They'd met during College Night at a local haunt called Star Lounge. It was the one night per month that students between the ages of eighteen and twenty were allowed into the club, and Ian had come in with a group of his popular-in-high-school guy friends. Harper had been dragged along by Jo, who had gone to show her ex, DJ Kevin, that she was doing perfectly fine without him, presumably by drinking herself into a stupor and showing her breasts to the bartender. Jo didn't handle breakups well.
While trying to rein in her drunk friend, Ian had approached Harper, his friends looking on in awe as he delivered a corny pickup line and offered to buy her a drink. Harper had let him buy her two drinks, one for herself, and a second which she instructed him to deliver to a girl farther down the bar, one who wasn't way out of his league. Instead of slinking away like a wounded animal, Ian had doubled down on his pursuit of her. Impressed, Harper had spent the night educating him on how to properly approach a girl, and which girls would be receptive to his flirtations. They'd ended up closing down the bar, and he'd earned her number after helping her get Jo back to the apartment and into bed.
“Then what is your type?” Ian asked. He smiled, trying to seem casual, but Harper knew a forced smile when she saw one.
Even after four years, Ian still hadn't given up on her. He still dated from time to time, but never had any relationship that Harper would call serious, and whenever he was single he would always start feeling her out, as if she would suddenly change her mind about him.
“Why do you want to know? So you can try to be something you're not?”
His fake smile faltered. “No. I just want you to say it aloud so you realize how impractical your expectations are. Honestly, I don't think you know what you like. Every time you meet a guy, the first thing you do is start picking him apart, looking for even the smallest reasons not to like him so it's easier for you to kick him to the curb. Remember Jason?”
Harper rolled her eyes. “Which one? Afraid-of-Clowns Jason or Vegan Jason?”
“Why do you have to give them all shitty names? And I don't know, the one who biked.”
“That was Vegan Jason—Jason Greene, if it makes you feel better. And not only did chicken broth give him stomach cramps, but he also didn't have a car and rode everywhere on a bicycle. Grown men shouldn't ride around on bicycles.”
“He was an Olympic cyclist!”
“He competed in The Olympics. He didn't win any medals.”
“That still makes him one of the best cyclists in the world,” Ian said, throwing up his hands. “Fine, what about the brain surgeon?”
“He was a resident training to become a neurosurgeon, and he was so incredibly lame. I can't tell you how many times he would say—”
“—It ain't like it's brain surgery,” they droned in unison.
“Okay, okay,” Ian capitulated. “I remember. He was a total douche.”
“He was also kind of a hipster,” she told him. “One time, he asked me where I wanted to meet for coffee. I told him Boston Common and he was all, 'Oh, that place? But it's so pedestrian.'”
“All right, forget I mentioned him.”
Ian seemed inclined to let the topic go, but Harper had to go for one final laugh.
“Do you remember his name?”
His brows drew together as he thought back. “I remember it was something kind of stupid.”
Harper snickered. “It was Buzz.”
“Wait? Buzz the Brain Surgeon?”
“Yes!” she said, throwing her head back as she laughed. “That's exactly what I call him in my head. That, and Dr. Tighty Whities, but that's a whole 'nother story.”
Ian put an arm around her and pulled her to his side. Harper allowed it, because at her core, she craved physical contact with the people, regardless of whether or not it gave them the wrong idea.
He rested his cheek on the top of her head and for a while they watched the fire in silence. Until he spoke, Harper hadn't realized that she'd been bracing herself for his question.
“So who am I? What's my name in your head?”
“You're Ian,” she said quietly.
“Ian, what? Daddy's Boy Ian? Silver Spoon Ian? Can't Take a Hint Ian?”
“Stop,” she said, pulling away from him. “Just stop.”
He ran his hands through his hair, one after the other. “What does it matter if I'm shorter than you, or if I'm a few years younger? I know you, Harper. Maybe better than anyone.”
The sad thing was that he did know her better than anyone, save for Jo. It was sad, because he barely knew her at all.
She placed a hand on his cheek, knowing that he would see it as patronizing even though it wasn't her intention. There was a part of her that, more than ever, was desperate for him—for anyone—to see her for what she was.
“Ian, you know what I want you to know.”
There might have been a correct combination of words that, had he used them in that moment, might have finally caused her to open up to him and trust him as she hadn't trusted anyone in a very long time.
Of course, like most people, Ian was too absorbed in his own crap to see hers. Without saying anything, he got up, kicked off his boots, and went inside the tent.
For a moment, Harper sat frozen in place. She never cried, except on the rare occasions when she woke from nightmares. She wanted to cry now, but as soon as her eyes began to sting, she heard a familiar, mocking voice.
Cry, cry, cry. All you ever do is cry. When are you going to realize no one cares about you? That they only comfort you so that you'll shut up?
Harper knew better than to cover her ears, as it would only make the voice louder. Instead, she took a few deep breaths and focused her attention on the sounds around her. The crackling fire, the sounds of crickets and frogs, and the wind.
Once she regained herself, she grabbed her gloves from her bag and went back to the tree she'd climbed earlier in the evening. It took her a few minutes to get back to the thick, forked branch, and a few more minutes to get comfortable. She took a joint and a lighter from her pocket and lit up.
She smoked more than she should have, smoked until she could fancy herself floating and not reclined on a hard branch. The stars above her seemed to pulse, as if to the beat of a drum, or to her own heartbeat. No thoughts crowded her mind and no voices competed for space in her head. For a short time, she simply was.
In that state, falling asleep was as easy as blinking. One minute, she was staring into the abyss of stars. Her eyes closed, and when they opened, the stars were fading, being replaced by early morning sunlight.
She had come to awareness so sharply that she knew there must have been a reason. Some sixth sense had roused her prematurely, and her first guess was that she might have moved and her body woke her before she rolled from the tree. Still, she was cautious as she tilted to the side, careful not to make a sound as she surveyed the ground.
Harper saw the wolves at once. Their earth-toned pelts made them blend in well with their surroundings, but they were the only things moving on the forest floor. She put them at three hundred feet from the campsite, closing in slowly and possibly from all sides. There were three that she could see, a dark-haired one the size of an average wolf, and two larger ones that could have been beta wolves.
Even if Jo and Ian had been awake and prepared to defend themselves, they wouldn't have stood a chance. Harper wouldn't have been able to take the wolves herself, either. Not without a gun, anyway, and they'd been adamant about not bringing guns. Harper did, however, have a knife that she kept in her boot. It wouldn't be enough to fend off all three wolves, but it might make them wary of attacking, especially if she didn't show fear.
Wolves became uneasy if their prey didn't become afraid.
Of course, she had to do her due diligence. It was possible that the wolves were simply wary of the unknown humans. They might be assuming a defensive formation without any real intention of attacking. In that case, by drawing a weapon, Harper would be setting the tone for their interaction, and the tone would be violence. First and foremost, she had to establish that they meant no harm to the wolves.
Quickly and quietly, she began to climb down from the tree. She was halfway down when she determined that the wolves would reach the tent before she reached the ground, and in a move she instantly regretted, Harper jumped down the rest of the way.
Pain shot through her knees, and for a second, she thought she might have sprained or even broken something. She forced herself to take a few staggering steps, and found that she could walk, albeit uncomfortably.
The wolves were instantly alerted to her presence. They switched their focus on her, but continued to advance at the same slow, eerie pace. It gave Harper enough time to go to the tent, but she didn't call for her friends. She knew that despite how aggressively she'd prepared them for this moment, they would still panic.
“We're not here to harm you or yours,” Harper said, holding up her hands to show that she was unarmed.
She spoke softly, knowing their keen ears would pick up every word. There was only a slight possibility that they wouldn't speak English. Unlike packs in other countries, where it was a toss up as to whether they spoke the national language, or some bastardization of native languages, there had only been two observed packs in The Greater Appalachian Reservation that spoke Native American dialects, and both had been documented over thirty years ago, back before The Appalachian Expansion of the early nineties, when the shifter population had been decimated.
In spite of their aversion to humans, human culture and language flourished among wolf packs, to an extent that many modern researchers weren't even aware of. Talking to a shifter, even one who had never seen the world beyond the reservation, was not much different than talking to any human raised in a different region. Some words were pronounced a little differently, and there might have been some slang or euphemisms you wouldn't be familiar with, but for the most part, they were clearly Americans. This was owed, in large part, to the influence of their human mothers, who unconsciously and sometimes deliberately, passed along their culture while raising their pups.
“We have no interest in fighting, but we will be forced to defend ourselves if you attack,” Harper continued. “We're researchers. We only want to talk.”
Her hand twitched as they entered lunging distance. She was fully prepared to go for her knife, but at the same time knew that once she did, all bets were off.
She was briefly relieved when they stopped twenty feet from her and sat. After a few seconds, when none of the three made any move to shift into human form, she became suspicious. She scanned the area for a fourth wolf, one in human form that would communicate with her, but she saw only the three stoic wolves, their eyes fixed on her with marked indifference.
She might have heard a leaf crunch, or perhaps she simply felt the air being displaced. Either way, she realized too late that she was being assaulted from behind. It put her at a disadvantage, having to react, rather than attack, as the sack came down around her head and something dealt a hard blow to the center of her back.
Chapter 2
Shifters rarely attacked with the intent to kill. In general, a shifter attack was a test of skill, unless they perceived a direct threat to their den, mate, or pups. In that case, the instinct to kill generally overrode their human sensibilities.
The attack was too calculated to be a blind assault, and so Harper had to assume—had to hope—that it was a test. She fought back accordingly.
Her knees threatened to buckle as the blow to her back came. She resisted the urge, and instead twisted her body and ducked, freeing her head. Her attacker would be able to move faster than her. Shifters tended to move more quickly than humans, not so fast as to bend the limits of nature, but fast enough that a human often couldn't react to their movements before it was too late, not unlike a striking snake. But while it was difficult to block a snake mid-strike, it was possible to recognize every sign that led up to the strike. She couldn't be faster than her opponent, but if she could anticipate his actions, she might be able to block and counter.
At the moment, she actually had an advantage. He didn't know her, or what she was capable of, and he was likely to assume that she was unskilled, simply by virtue of her species and gender. That advantage would quickly wane as they fought.
Harper stumbled away from him, taking in his profile in a millisecond. Not tall, but solid. Heavily muscled—he could easily overpower her. Fighter's stance—he was accustomed to grappling in human form.
Fuck.
He advanced on her and she backed away, their movements dance-like in their synchronicity. He wasn't going as quickly as he could, and that worried her. He wanted to toy with her.
The other wolves looked on, unmoving. They wouldn't interfere. Wolves were pack hunters and would generally rush to defend one of their own, but in this, their human mentalities bled through. You didn't interfere in someone else's fight.
Briefly, she wondered if she was handling this correctly. Instinct had told her to fight back, but there had been another option, one similar to submission, but more elegant. She could have played the part of the weak, ineffectual female, appealing to his better nature, his pride, and his dick. There was still time to do so. All she had to do was flinch when his first blow came, or perhaps take it and begin to cry.
Harper wasn't above such wily tactics, and in fact, they were some of her favorite. In this situation, they would likely serve her far better than proving that she was a trained fighter. But there was something in his eyes, something she couldn't readily identify, at least not in the seconds she had to observe him. It was something in the way he smiled, teeth bared on one side, and something in his eyes, which could have been mistaken for a corpse's. This male would not care if she cried. This male would not care if he hurt her. He might even enjoy it even more.
He swung his fist. It was a test blow, almost playful. The sort of blow he expected to clip her, but not fully incapacitate her. Harper couldn't use such a punch to her best advantage, so she simply dodged it. He swung again, and then again, at first amused, and then visibly annoyed as he began putting genuine effort into his punches. All the while, Harper was sizing him up, getting a sense of his skill.
He was practiced, but not refined. Practice, in and of itself, was unusual, given that most shifters fought exclusively in wolf form. While he knew how to fight, it was clear that he was unaccustomed to sparring with a trained partner, because he left himself open in ways that even a novice could have pointed out, if not taken advantage of.
With how he kept his blocking arm limp at his side, Harper could have easily gotten the knife from her boot and rammed it into his torso. But while something like that may have debilitated a human, the shifter's decreased sensitivity to pain would have meant that she'd only be pissing him off.
Instead, she continued to wait for her opportunity. It finally came as he surged forward, throwing the bulk of his weight into a punch that, had it connected, could have killed her. She dodged the punch and sidestepped him, grabbing his arm. Using his own momentum against him, she was able to get him to the ground. In the span of a second, she was kneeling with her knee on him and her hand keeping his arm twisted back.
The knee to his back was a ploy, making him think he could easily shake her off. If he'd paused for even an instant to consider it, he would have realized what a dumb move that would have been on her part. Clearly, he thought she was in idiot, because he immediately tried leaping up. Harper miscalculated the amount of force he would use, and far from causing himself minor injury, she heard his arm snap.
Double fuck.
Knowing she no longer had leverage, sh
e leapt back and drew her knife. The wolves around them grew agitated and began exchanging grunts and barks.
She managed to get back to the tent as her attacker peeled himself from the ground, pushing up on his uninjured arm.
“You filthy, fucking human,” he seethed in a growling voice. There was pure malice in his black eyes.
As he advanced on her, she performed a quick reassessment of her situation and it had gone from bad to worse. The wolves weren't going to interfere in their fight, unless they thought she would kill their pack mate. Now, her attacker clearly had no intention of letting her live, which meant that she'd have to fight him to the death. Her only chance was to appeal to his pack mates and hope that by the law of averages, they weren't all sadistic assholes as well.
“Please,” she said to the wolves. “I don't want this. I don't want to fight, but I will defend myself.”
She thought she saw one of them begin to shift, but she couldn't wait to see if he would intervene. Her attacker moved in for a reckless assault, reaching for her knife hand. He was expecting to be able to use his superior speed to disarm her, which, if he considered how she'd managed to dodge him at every turn, was exceedingly dumb. But he wasn't thinking clearly anymore. He was angry and in pain. This wasn't exactly an advantage for Harper. It meant that it would be easier for her to attack him, but at the same time, he was likely to just plow through her attacks and assault her regardless.
She turned her knife up in time to slice his hand and then kicked his chest, her aim not at pushing him back, but at giving herself the momentum to jump back farther. Had he use of his other arm, it would have been a bad move, but given the circumstances, it gave her the time she needed.
