Wolf Born. Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
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but naked. Her first naked male of any kind. And he was definitely a perfect specimen that she imagined most women would call mouthwatering.
The skin of his bare back and buttocks had shined with a tanned tautness that suggested he saw a lot of sun without wearing clothes. No white lines traversed the flowing, golden flesh. Nor did he bear tattoos, other than the ring of scar tissue on one upper arm in the shape of a wolf’s bite that all true Lycans possessed.
Rosalind passed a clawed hand over her own similar mark, taking this as a further sign of an unmistakable bond with whoever he was.
She had held herself back so he couldn’t see her when he’d turned. She had observed how a light drift of masculine hair ran the length of his powerful chest and over his sculpted abs to become even darker as it nestled between his legs. The feature that had been momentarily displayed between those thighs made Rosalind flush.
And then there was the werewolf.
The beast that unfolded from all that glorious humanness had brown-auburn fur the same color as the man’s hair. Denser than his human form, and heavier with tension-loaded muscle, this werewolf was also damn near perfect, and too magnificent to be real.
Rosalind fielded the arrival of a full-fledged hunger for him. Battling sensations that were new, instinctual, primal, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and lick his golden-brown neck.
Her sexual appetite intensified with each ripple of his incredible Lycan muscle. But Rosalind also sensed a pain-filled anger that would prohibit him from shifting in such close proximity to others. His body visibly shook with that anger.
In spite of all the possible repercussions of empathy with a stranger, as well as a fair amount of misplaced erotic hallucinations, Rosalind followed him when he moved, as if she were his shadow.
He had ignored her in the park, not because she was a stranger, she now knew, but because he had been needed elsewhere. He hadn’t rejected her out of choice.
Picking up her speed when he started to run, she raced in his wake, keeping back apace, watchful, careful, realizing that she was going to pay for this in one way or another when she got back to Judge Landau’s place.
Then again, surely her father would understand the situation once he heard about the Lycan killings, and comprehend her need to help this wronged Were. Maybe she could lead this male to the Landau retreat, where he’d be safe and among friends, even if Were packs were private and didn’t usually mingle.
At that moment, she was willing to place her own life and secrets in jeopardy for the chance to offer comfort and support to the first young Lycan she had ever come across, one who made her feel viciously alive.
Silent words tumbled in her throat.
You are not alone.
My strength will come in handy. I give my strength to you.
As Rosalind sprinted after him, she felt the chill of a terrible premonition about what awaited them both in the cover of darkness. The night rippled around them as though tugged by an unseen force.
If werewolves had pockets for cell phones, she’d have sent an SOS to her father. Still, in whatever faced them out there, two Lycans were always better than one.
Pity the poor soul, she growled, who finds this out firsthand.
* * *
Colton ran like a fiend, working with each stride to maintain enough humanity to keep his reasoning powers functioning. He couldn’t afford for Otherness to overtake him completely—or for his pain to overwhelm him.
Once he was through the last of the suburban homes, his vision sharpened. He sped across open ground on the west side of the park, heading for the trees, calculating how many buildings rose in the distance on the eastern and southern sides.
He knew the night creatures hadn’t headed toward those buildings, toward civilization. Rationalization told him that perhaps they hadn’t been randomly hungry, but on a mission. There had been plenty of opportunities in the surrounding neighborhoods between here and his house for a freak’s blood buffet, and yet they had picked his street.
So, where are the murderous vipers headed?
North of the park lay the posh estates of prominent Miami citizens wealthy enough to enjoy the luxury of space and privacy. Big houses protected by security gates. Lycan presence lay in at least one of them. The famous Landaus, head of their own pack. Surely no fanged monsters existed near there.
His knowledge of the habits of vampires was insufficient, and that was a snag. Did they have clans, packs, dens? Did the presence of these few mean, like cockroaches, there were others in the area?
What sort of weapon would de-animate a creature already dead? The mythology listed wooden stakes, exposure to sunlight and beheading. Thinking that holy water could do the trick had, so rumor said, always been a mistake. Garlic as a deterrent was laughable.
The only question remaining was about how many vampires a werewolf could handle at once with his bare hands.
No matter. Have to try.
Finding his rhythm in much the same way that real wolves chased down prey, Colton took in great gulps of night air that were like candy to a beast so hot inside and out. Apprehension was in itself a kind of narcotic.
He ran, driven by what may have been his own kind of bloodlust, able to tell he was getting closer to the vampires. The mood in the park changed, darkened, intensified, along the park’s edge.
Movement.
Rustling in the shadows.
Don’t vampires know that Lycans can hear?
Colton veered to his right with his nerve endings blazing in time to see an outline of whatever was out there coming on exceptionally fast. A fuzzy blur.
His senses all but exploded. He had time for just one more breath and to bare his teeth. Then they were on him.
Too many of them, maybe, Colton acknowledged as his claws began to swing.
* * *
Stunned for a moment by the sight ahead of her, Rosalind slammed to a halt some distance away from the disturbance to get her bearings.
These weren’t humans the Were had gone after. She didn’t immediately recognize the scent, but the odor of maliciousness these creatures gave off saturated the otherwise spring-flavored night with something similar to the iron-like taint of blood.
They were a kind of creature new to her, and they moved too fast to see details, or get a head count. Ten of them, maybe twelve, she figured. Fifteen?
Dropping from the trees like winged bats falling on an insect, they had either been waiting for some other poor, unsuspecting soul to trespass here, or else they had laid a well-planned ambush for the brown Were, having expected him to pursue.
She gave a soft roar of sympathy as she carefully studied the scene.
The big Were rushed through the blur of monsters. The beautiful werewolf who had been a golden-skinned man not long before this tore into the attackers with aggressive, fluid skills and a look of pure madness on his face.
She caught a word from the brown Were’s mind without knowing how she could do that. Vampire. That’s what this werewolf faced.
Her blood began to pound in her veins. Some distant part of her recognized the concept of bloodsucker even if she didn’t fully understand it. What she did realize was that a masterful, powered-up Were didn’t stand much of a chance here without the aid of several more like him. There were just too many monsters in this fight.
Also clear was the realization that she truly couldn’t leave him to fight alone.
I’m here.
Moving in from the werewolf’s