was itching for something to do that didn’t involve talking or emotions.
I dashed out of my office and jogged up the slope behind the clinic, shrugging out of my jacket and boots. My feet slipped through the patches of tough dead grass, the edges of each blade pricking my ankles. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, searching for a trace of Samson’s blood on the breeze. My face naturally inclined north, to one of Samson’s favorite napping spots in the valley. A patch of dirt he’d dug out on the north lip of the crescent. Nothing. I faced south and caught the faintest scent of rust. I followed it on human feet, silent and swift, my braid bouncing against my back as the scent grew stronger. There was a trail there, worn through the trees by generations of paws.
I skidded to a stop when I recognized the shiny black patch of blood on the ground. Samson’s paw-prints hadn’t gone any farther, as if he’d come running along and stopped suddenly before he was hit. Had he heard a noise? I couldn’t smell any sign of a human or a wolf nearby. I looked up at the bare, imposing limbs overhead. There was nowhere to hide. And there was no camera in sight. Was that blind luck on the shooter’s part? Or did he know where the cameras were?
Samson would have seen a human standing close. The shot must have come from a distance, which could have meant a skewed shot from the game preserve. But there were so many trees. What was the probability of a hunter shooting wild and then the bullet making it all the way through the forest without hitting anything but Samson? I’d say it ranged from no freaking way to none. This was the work of our fabric-softener-loving friend.
I sat on the ground and considered the possibilities. And then I realized that I was just a few yards from the spot where I’d claimed Nick with that ill-conceived bite. He’d been sitting a short distance from where Samson had been shot.
There was a crushing tightness in my chest, leaving me unable to draw in air. I could see Nick in my head, sitting alone on that ridge, scribbling in his little notebook. The wind was playing with his gold hair, and he was pausing every few minutes to shove his glasses back up on his nose. Suddenly, there was the loud crack of a rifle shot, and Nick slumped to the ground, a patch of red blooming on the chest pocket of his shirt. The notebook fluttered out of his hand as blood trickled over his lips. He was unable to move, unable to call for help, unable to do anything but stay there and die. Because of me, because he was too close to me.
Unlike Samson, my mate would not be capable of transforming into a giant wolf and defending himself. I would spend the rest of my life worrying about Nick. I mean, the man had wandered into the path of rogue werewolves and been involved in a serious motor-vehicle incident just since meeting me. I would worry about him getting sick, getting shot, getting caught in the crossfire of whatever weird pattern of phenomena was circling around the valley. Mo had barely survived her ordeal, and that was with just one crazed werewolf after her. What if a whole pack came after us?
As long as Nick was close to me, he’d be in some form of danger.
I thought I could regulate that paranoia. I thought I could handle the constant anxiety. Hell, when I found out that my brother had abandoned Mo in an effort to protect her, I tracked him down, called him a lot of anatomically detailed names, and threatened to rip his head off. But now, the idea of Nick loving me somehow getting him killed had me throwing up in a mossy bank near the tree line. This was definitely a case of “it’s different because it’s me.”
I couldn’t wait and think this through. I had to stop it now. I had to get Nick to leave now. If I let it go on any longer, it would hurt that much worse. Sure, I was basically kissing my life good-bye. No babies. No Nick. No sex. But at least he would be alive. I stumbled toward the woods, toward Grundy, not bothering to tear off my clothes so I could transform. I burst into my wolf state, leaving a trail of scraps in my wake. I ran faster than my four paws had ever carried me, following Nick’s scent across the miles that protected him from my crazy-ass life. I found him on his couch, typing on his laptop.
He grinned at me as I came through the door, and I felt as if I was going to throw up again. He set aside his work and opened his arms to me. “Hey, are you OK? No more shorthand messages without follow-up; they make me nervous.” When I didn’t dive into his embrace as usual, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Look, Nick,” I said, smiling at him and giving my best “bad news” face. “This whole thing has been a lot of fun. But I think you’re taking all this way too seriously. It’s time for you to move on.”
Nick’s face flushed, then went bone white. “What?”
I sighed, trying to seem exasperated. “It’s time for you to find some other pack to pester. I mean, we had some good times, but I think we both knew this wouldn’t work out in the long run.”
“But we’re mated now, you said—”
“I made it up!” I said, adding a sarcastic little laugh for good measure. “Like human girls who tell the guys who take them home from bars that they ‘never do this sort of thing.’ Weres feed that whole ‘mated for life’ line to humans all the time. It makes you feel special.”
He was staring me down, searching my face for some sign of the lie. And I was this close to folding. Fortunately, Friday-night card games with Pops and Samson had given me a pretty steady poker face. I gritted my teeth and stared right back. Nick’s eyes narrowed. My lips tightened into a thin little line. And suddenly, he was grinning like a loon.
That I had not expected.
“You’re pulling a Lassie on me, aren’t you?” he crowed, laughing.
Now my exasperation was genuine. “What?”
“You’re pulling a Lassie on me,” he said again. “It’s like some old episode of Lassie when Timmy thinks Lassie’s about to be taken away and shot by some old mean farmer for eating chickens. Timmy tells Lassie he hates her and throws rocks at her so she’ll run away.”
“Are you high right now?” I demanded.
“You’re trying to hurt me so I’ll leave. You want to get me out of the way so . . . what, so I won’t get hurt? What’s going on, Maggie? Why are you scared?”
“I’m not scared. I want you to leave because I want you out of my face,” I shot back.
“Not true. You love me.”
“No, I don’t.”
I scowled as his little dimples winked at me, and he said, “Can’t live without me.”
“I don’t like to harp on this, but you do know I’m capable of killing you, right?”
“I think I should move in with you.”
“Oh, my God, you’re such a pain in the ass,” I grumbled.
“A pain in the ass that you’re madly in love with,” he said.
I gave him my best death glare. He gave me that damn smile again, and I folded like a frigging accordion. I groaned as he wrapped his arm around me.
“Come on, baby, tell me what has you so wound up,” he whispered. “You’re Maggie Fucking Graham. You’re not afraid of anything.”
“Not true,” I admitted, tapping my forehead against his collarbone. “Losing you scares the crap out of me.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Samson was shot today,” I murmured into his shirt. “He’s going to be OK, but we couldn’t find who did it. And of course, Cooper came running, bringing Mo and the baby with him. And I started thinking about how stupid that was, because he could be bringing his family right into the whirlwind. I’m not any better than he is. I’m worse, because I want you close to me. And I can’t protect you. I can try, but nothing I do can guarantee that you’ll be safe. I can’t keep anything from happening to you. It would be so much better for you to get as far away from me as you can. “
“Not going to happen,” he said.
“I know,” I grumbled. “Damn it. It was worth a shot.” I looked up at him, my eyes pricking hotly. “I don’t want anybody else. I can’t be with anyone else.” He pulled me close, and I murmured into his neck, “I love you.”
“Who was wrong?” he asked.
“I was wrong.” I sighed.
He poked my shoulder. “Who was right?”
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he told me. “I don’t care what you try to do to push me away. I don’t care what comes
