by Callie Rose
The pain is agonizing. I feel every inch of my skin that’s been mutilated by the concrete. The road rash turns to flames licking my skin as the shift erupts over my limbs. I swallow back bile as my broken rib pops into place in my wolf torso, and my injured arm protests the magic elongating it. I don’t even try to get up—I just let my paws stretch off to the side and pant against the asphalt.
Frost’s cool fingers rub gently behind my ears. “Good. Let’s give it a minute, then you’re going to switch back.”
Oh yay, I think to myself, and a little whine comes out of my throat.
“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, and his voice is just so calm, so fucking steady, that I believe him. “Now. Shift back.”
It’s a struggle to focus on the change through the painful assault on my body. But Frost leaves his fingers against my forehead, and I focus on that little pinpoint of cool in a world of fire. My shifter magic races through me, tugging my legs back in, turning paws back to hands and my bent torso into a human one.
When I’m done, I’m lying on my side on the concrete with bits of broken glass, cigarette butts, and rocks beneath my naked body.
Frost’s palm slants over the side of my face. “Much better. Let’s do it one more time.”
By the time he coaxes me through another shift, and then back to human once more, I feel better. The shifter magic healed the worst of the road rash and knitted my broken rib back together. Whatever I’d done to my arm eased up, so now it just feels like a bad sprain.
New fingers touch a particularly raw spot on my outer thigh. Malix probes the semi-healed road rash as he says, “Good thing you aren’t human, kitty cat. That crash would have owned you.”
I laugh, but it turns into a cough and everything in my body starts to hurt. Like a low-level hum that you can only hear but not find the source of.
Frost’s hand still rests against my heated face, while Malix continues to check me over. His strong, capable fingers probe my injured arm.
Suddenly, I’m struck by the memory of him in the woods outside Erik’s house. His hands on me make me recall the way he was stroking himself, and for a split second, I’m back there in that little copse of trees, mesmerized by the beauty of him.
Even crashing my bike and ripping off acres of my skin can’t completely override the pull of my attraction to him. My breath catches in my throat as I stare down at his fingers wrapped around my arm.
Tension builds, like it always seems to. Even Frost’s hand goes utterly still on my face. The air is charged between us, with all the things we’ve left unsaid, all the things we’ll never admit.
Kian’s boots scuff over the concrete behind Malix. “Come on. We need to find this tree yesterday, before the poison kills her.”
Frost slips his hands below my arms and gently helps me sit up. “We have time.”
“Do we?” Kian asks gruffly. “Because I think maybe we were wrong about the timeline.”
I lean heavily on Malix’s arm as he and Frost maneuver me to my feet. It’s not easy, and I ache from the roots of my hair to my fucking toenails, but I’m mobile and I’m alive, so that’s good enough for now.
Once I’m vertical, I ask, “What do you mean we were wrong about the timeline?”
Kian catches my eye, his expression giving nothing away. “We may have less time than we thought. The next attack could kill you.”
Chapter 21
Kian’s declaration snaps me out of my daze—both the lingering arousal and the fuzziness in my head from the crash. The poison pain has faded again, but that attack did feel stronger and more intense than the first. It didn’t last as long, but it felt like I was dying.
That alone makes me fear that Kian may be right.
“Potion isn’t going to do us any good if it shattered during the crash,” I point out, a sick feeling settling in my stomach.
Kian’s brow arches. “Come again?”
“The potion. It was in my trunk. And that was…” I wave a hand, indicating the road and the crash. “That was a big boom.”
“Fuck,” he growls, then stalks away from us back toward my bike.
While Frost was coaching me through shifting, Kian must have walked down the road and retrieved my Ducati. It sits on the embankment behind their bikes, upright and with a working kickstand, but absolutely savaged by the wreck.
Kian rips open the internal trunk with a bit more force than necessary, then digs around in my things before emerging with an intact mason jar.
Every one of us lets out a sigh of relief. It’s a weirdly unifying feeling.
I take a step toward my poor demolished bike and nearly stumble. Malix reaches for me but then holds back at the last second, like he’s not sure he should. Helping me when I was torn to pieces and half unconscious must have been an easier sell than helping me now that I’m back on my feet.
I try not to let it bother me… but it does.
Malix’s gaze lingers on my face as I find my balance. “You okay?”
I shrug. “One more day above the roses.”
Shoving aside all of my conflicting thoughts and feelings, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other and manage to limp over to my bike. Frost follows close behind with my boots and jeans.
I retrieve my backpack from inside the trunk and pick out a clean t-shirt and some cotton shorts. The road rash on my thigh aches like a motherfucker, so while I’m glad Malix helped me save my jeans, I’m sure as shit not putting them back on. Not until I can deal with the fact that they’re going to be somewhat holey from here on out.
Once I’m dressed, I carefully shovel the rest of my belongings into the backpack until the trunk is empty, then throw my jeans on top of it all and zip the bag.
I haul the bag onto my shoulder and grimace at my bike. If I could get it to a shop, it’d be fixable, but that’s not exactly a possibility at the moment. Finding the Tree of Life and completing this potion is the priority. We have no time for bike repairs.
“Fuck,” I seethe under my breath, running my fingers over the seat. I’ve been riding it since the day I left pack lands, and I've gotten oddly attached to it over the years. “I liked this bike, dammit.”
Frost, who’s stood silently next to me this whole time, holds out my boots. “You can ride with me.”
I nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I get in one last, long good look at my beloved bike while I shove my feet into my boots, then I limp over to Frost and climb up behind him.
I perch a few inches away from his back and rest my hands lightly on his waist, trying to keep as much air between our bodies as possible. I’m still feeling way too sympathetic toward Frost after our conversation last night, and especially after he just sat and held my head, coaxing me through the worst of the pain from the crash. Of all three of the men, he’s the one I most think could be salvaged, and that is a dangerous thing.
We take off down the highway, even though I still have no idea where we’re headed. After a while of holding myself too stiffly, I finally stop resisting and slouch against Frost’s back. I’m exhausted, and my body aches all over. I can’t even put forth the extra energy to pull away from him anymore.
A small part of me doesn’t want to bother anyway.
Frost smells good. Warm and spicy, like chai tea on a cold porch while a fire pit roars at my feet. I bury my face in his shirt and cling to his trim stomach. His muscles are hard and defined beneath his clothes. I fit a little too well against his back, and it scares me.
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of his tattoos moving over his biceps. I lift my head to watch the little lines squiggle, then raise my voice over the wind. “Why haven’t you had any bouts of pain from the poison?”
His voice flies back to me on the rush of the wind. “I have.”
Confused, I say, “But I haven’t seen you get hit like I have. I passed out the first time and wrecked my bike the second.”
Frost shrugs. “I’m always in pain. A little more doesn’t make a differenc
e.”
His words hit me in the chest like a sledgehammer, just like they did when we spoke in the mad witch’s makeshift library. That sick, yawning pit of sympathy opens inside me, and I don’t respond, because I don’t want him to know how much his words affect me. He’s so simple and matter-of-fact about being in pain all the time. Like it doesn’t even faze him.
But the reality fazes me. My heart aches to know what he lives with on a daily basis.
Don’t get soft, Amora, I warn. But the reminder doesn’t have the bite it normally does.
They’ve all shown me a different side of them. In a different light, it almost feels like I can change them.
And that’s an even more dangerous thing.
We pull off the interstate in a town slightly larger than the last one. Kian leads us away from the small business strip and into a neighborhood of single-story Spanish-style homes set far apart from one another. It’s a nice area—professionally landscaped, clean kept, sporting slightly more expensive vehicles in the driveway. Kian motions for us to stay behind, then he disappears into the neighborhood for a good twenty minutes.
I doze against Frost’s back on the side of the road. My head feels like it’s three times the proper size, and the road rash on my thigh burns like my bones are on fire. The injury in my arm wasn’t really bothering me until I had to hang on to Frost on the back of his bike, but now that we’ve stopped, it’s almost numb with pain.
Kian finally returns and crooks a finger at us as he circles around the street. Frost turns on the engine and we follow, heading deeper into the neighborhood.
After a few turns, we end up on a cul-de-sac that juts up to a decorative line of trees that separates the houses from the desert. Kian rolls right up into a driveway like he owns the place, and Frost and Malix follow him without comment.
We park at the back of the house next to one of those ridiculous wooden patios that has open beams instead of a damn roof. The kind of dumb rich person purchase that always makes me wonder if they’ve got brains at all. When I’m on a patio, I’d like to have some actual shade and some actual protection from the elements. How the hell are you supposed to drink a beer in the rain if it’s pouring right through the beams?
Frost cuts the engine, then climbs off first and offers me a helping hand.
I ignore it. No use letting the whole touchy-feely thing drag out.
Kian walks up to the back door. It’s a verandah door—no deadbolt, just one of those curly handles that can be ripped right off by a shifter. Which is what he does, breaking the handle away from the doorframe, then shoving it open.
“Guy left for work,” he says gruffly. “Suit and tie, probably heading for a nine-to-five somewhere. We’ll eat, get some rest, then keep moving before he gets home.”
I limp into the living room, glancing around at the whitewashed walls and bland decor. Place looks more like a rental property than a home, but what do I know? I collapse onto the tan leather couch and hook my boots off with my toes before I curl up on my side and close my eyes.
A few moments pass as I sink into the cool, comfortable cushions and the darkness behind my eyelids. I listen to the guys move around the house and hope they aren’t about to rob this poor guy blind, then realize I don’t fucking care. I just want to sleep and feel better.
A rustling sound next to me forces my eyes open a minute later. I blink at a set of turquoise blue eyes set in a fluffy little white face.
A cat.
She sits on the coffee table beside my head, staring at me with her ears perked. Her long white fur is splotched with black, cinnamon, and ginger in the typical calico pattern.
“Uh. Hi,” I murmur. “Sorry to intrude.”
At the sound of my voice, she instantly begins to purr.
I growl and close my eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, really?”
The purr gets louder, and I feel the cushions shift as her little paws pad toward me. Then the little bitch curls up in the curve of my abdomen. Still purring.
I’m too tired to argue.
“Made a friend, I see,” Kian notes, his deep voice rumbling into my ear.
I open my eyes again, thinking I’d much prefer it to be a second fucking cat than him. He’s settling on the edge of the coffee table with a clear plastic box marked by the first aid symbol.
“Yup. We’re besties now,” I mutter. “Don’t tell Malix. I’ll never live it down.”
“Too late,” he grunts, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.
I shift my head to look up at the doorway. The man in question stands leaning against the doorframe, a giant Cheshire cat grin on his face.
“Oh, fuck off, puppy,” I snarl and close my eyes again.
The cat purrs louder.
God fucking dammit. Why is this my life?
Warmth closes in on my thigh, and the loose leg of my cotton short shifts upward. My head snaps up as I shoot my good arm out and latch on to Kian’s wrist. The cat doesn’t even flinch.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
“I’m going to clean the dirt out of your wounds. Unless you want gangrene.”
I ignore the fact that he’s pointedly throwing my own argument back into my face. I argued that I needed to clean his wound after Erik sliced him up like a loaf of bread.
“I’m tougher than I look,” I tell him with a snort. “You act like I didn’t grow up eating dirt and wrestling in poison ivy like a good little pack wolf.”
Kian makes a sound that could almost be a laugh.
Almost.
The sound tugs at something deep inside me, as if someone plucked a string in my heart. It reverberates through my chest, soothing and aching at the same time. Clearing my throat, I release his hand and wave him on.
“Fine. Do whatever you want. Just don’t take too long.”
With those words, I give in to my exhaustion again, closing my eyes and sinking back against the couch pillow. The cat continues to purr like she’s harboring a freaking twin turbo under the hood.
Kian sets to work on my leg, his movements brusque and businesslike. He uses alcohol to clean it out, then gauze to lightly scrape leftover rocks and debris away. I’m tense under his touch, and the cleaning hurts like hell if I focus on it too much, but having him care for me feels good.
Even though I don’t want it to.
That makes me think about how things might have been different all those years ago. If he wasn’t who he was, if we’d accepted the mate bond and started a life together. Maybe he would have cared for me like this through the battle with the witches.
“When we met,” I murmur, my eyes still closed, “were you already on the same mission for your alpha as you are now?”
There’s a pregnant pause, then he answers. “Yes.”
“But you were alone in Montana.”
“I was,” Kian agrees, and cold alcohol flows over my road rash again. I suck in a breath, and the cat’s claws sink into my side like she’s holding me in place. “Our alpha sent us on solo missions at first. Then Frost found a place where the barrier between Earth and the shadow realm is weak. He tried to breach it himself, and shit went south fast. He almost died, and the barrier held firm. That’s when we were instructed to stay together. To keep each other safe and work together if we ever find a thin enough part of the veil to break through.”
His hands disappear from my thigh, and a moment later, a wet cotton ball swipes over my jawline.
I open my eyes, and my heart skips a beat at his nearness.
He’s leaning over my head, his knees pressed against the cushions because of how big he is. Something stings on my face as he cleans it. I probably look like a fucking wreck.
“You have an alpha,” I mutter, mostly to distract myself from the overwhelming feel of his presence so close to me. “That means you have a pack, right?”
Kian’s lips tighten, and he drops the bloodied, dirty cotton ball onto the table, then reaches for a tube of ointment. “No. Not really.”
; As he swipes the ointment on my skin, I consider what I know about these three men. They hunt like pack wolves, but they’re not really. They’re nothing like the men I grew up with back home, and it’s not just because of their shadow forms or the magical tattoos. They’re exactly what Gwen told me they are—feral shifters. Set apart from the rest. Isolated.
“They’re all you have,” I murmur, staring at Kian’s face. “Malix and Frost.”
His hand is nearly cupping my cheek as he tends the scratch on my jaw. We’re only inches apart, and for once, we’re not trying to bite each other’s heads off. He tilts his head toward me a little, and it reminds me so much of the way he rested his forehead against mine that night in his hotel room that I unconsciously mirror the movement.
But before our faces can touch, his expression hardens. He grabs the first aid kit and stands, looking down on me with that stony look I’ve come to hate so much.
“They’re all I need,” he says shortly.
Then he walks away, leaving me with this fucking purring cat.
Chapter 22
I wake up several hours later, groggy and disoriented from a daytime nap in a strange place.
Sometime while I slept, the cat disappeared, and I must have looked cold because someone tossed a soft white blanket over me. I stretch beneath the cloud-like fabric, testing out all the aches and pains I fell asleep with. I’m sore—and probably will be for a few days—but I’m able to function.
Not a bad thing, considering that if I were human, I’d probably be bound for the hospital. Possibly in a body bag.
I swing my legs off the couch and rub the sleep from my eyes. By the look of the sunlight outside the bank of windows behind the couch, it’s early afternoon. There’s no immediate sign that my companions are around, and I have a brief moment of fear that they’ve left me. That they’ve set me up to lie here and sleep until the homeowner returns and catches me.
But when I focus on listening to the quiet house, I hear low voices filtering into the room from down the hall. Shoving aside the blankets, I stand and get my bearings, then head for the source of the noise.
