She tore him apart and remade him.
It took her less than a second.
Present day
IF SUCH A THING AS AN IDEAL NIGHT TO DIE EXISTS, THIS isn't it.
There's so much wrong with it. I could bitch about the recent rainstorm, the moon hanging weak and small as a garlic clove, or the uncharged phone sitting on my nightstand. The main issue, though, is that I'm wearing no more than two items of clothing: undies and a camisole. They were perfectly adequate underneath my fluffy comforter. Unfortunately, I'd left that back at the cabin when I woke at one a.m. to the realization that someone was breaking in.
It's fall. In a place that a year or so ago—back when I still foolishly believed I was Human—I would have called Oregon. Now that my Were genes are taking over, stuff like cartography and state lines have become comically trivial, but the crux of the matter remains: November in the Northwest is cold, and I'm not dressed for it.
"The goddamn timing," I mouth to myself, darting behind the gnarled trunk of a Douglas fir. Chest heaving, I stare down at my distinctly Human-shaped hand. I visualize the change, willing my nails—bitten to the quick—to elongate into claws.
Shift into a wolf, Serena. Shift into a fucking wolf, or I swear to God that . . .
That nothing. My body refuses to be shamed into compliance. I glance up at the sky, but the legendary pull of the moon offers only the most apathetic of tugs. With a muted groan, I resume my sprint through the forest, bare feet slipping through fresh mud. A dozen little cuts crisscross my soles and shins. The longer I run, the fainter my hope that the soil will conceal the iron scent of my blood.
And I've been running for a while.
The intruder is tracking me. Gaining ground. The wind carries his ever-closer scent, and I don't like what it tells me. Vampyre. Adult in his prime. Eager. The thrill of the chase titillates him, and his arousal grazes the pit of my stomach. As revolting as that is, though, it's the least of my problems. Because if I can smell him this clearly, there's a very high chance that he's close enough to—
"At long fucking last." The words hiss like bullets in my ear. An instant later, my back is slammed into a trunk. I don't know what hurts most—the bark biting into my skin, the hand curling around my throat, or his disgusting, maniacal stench.
The forest is pitch black. There's no darkness through which Weres cannot see, but I got only half of those nice wolf genes, which means my night vision is hit or miss. Still, the Vampyre's bloodlust is unmistakable. As is the blade in his hand. "Not very fast, are you?" he growls.
No shit. I swallow an eye roll and force myself to moan helplessly. "Please," I beg. His scent explodes; seems having women at his mercy is his kink of choice—how predictable—so I give him some more. "Please, don't kill me. I'll do whatever you want."
"Whatever I want?"
He's so interested. I let out a whimper and widen my eyes. "Anything."
His eyes travel down my body, as if to assess what I might be useful for—organ trafficking, bone broth, yard maintenance. Unlike me, he is fast. Preternaturally so. With dizzying speed, his knife slices through the front of my silk top, deepening the neckline.
This fucker.
But as he leers, his scent spikes. Which means he's distracted enough by what he's uncovered that I get a chance to put the self-defense classes my sister forced me to attend to good use.
Knee to the groin.
Headbutt to the nose.
And, as a little extra, an elbow to the stomach. I mean, why not?
The Vampyre grunts. Mutters a few variations of "fucking whore." I'm free, though. I might not be able to outrun him, but I can grab a fistful of soil and throw it at his eyes, which does just enough damage to slow him down. I frantically look around and—yes. I spot a sharp, jagged rock. I bend down to palm it.
"You fucking freak of nature." The Vampyre is on me again, twisting my arm behind my back. I let out a yelp, but the rock is in my hand. Tragically, he's holding my wrist at the wrong angle for me to strike.
In theory, I know what the next step is—move closer, lower your center of gravity, rotate your body, strike with your free hand—and boy, do I try. Sadly, the Vampyre is a notch or two above the average fighter, and none of it works.
That's when my stomach starts churning for real. This is not going to end well. "Let. Me. Go," I spit out.
"Shut up." The vinegar of his scent stings my nose. He's even more worked up now. And I'm in even deeper shit. "I may not be allowed to kill you, but I can make you hurt a whole fucking lot before I—"
"Can you, though?" A male voice interrupts him. It travels in our direction from somewhere in the thicket of trees. A rich, slow curl, at once vicious and detached. No answer exists that could faze this voice. "Can you really, buddy?"
The Vampyre's frame stiffens. Before he can leash his instinctive reaction, I smell utter, abject, acrid fear.
I close my eyes. Force my burning lungs to inhale slowly. Let my expectations for the next ten minutes recalibrate, molding to a shape that is . . . still unfortunate, yes, but a touch less so.