As soon as I reach the Southwest Pack Compound, I park my car, strip bare, and shift. Back arching and bones snapping, I relish the pain, pushing all my anger and frustration into speeding up the change. When it’s done, I’m left panting, my limbs shaking from the too-fast change, but I don’t give myself even a moment to catch my breath before I’m racing through the woods surrounding my home.
I run hard and fast, losing myself to my wolf’s baser instincts and allowing his mind to take the reins. I run until my body is exhausted and my mind goes blank, knowing I can’t go inside the Compound until I’m no longer wound up. My anger no longer riding me.
My mother knows me too well and she’ll ask questions. Questions I’m not prepared to answer. My mind is at war with itself. The need to protect Isa taking center stage. I know doing anything to help is a bad call. She isn’t Pack and Pack has to come first. Doing anything in response to the attack will put shifter relationships at risk. And for what? An outsider?
But it doesn’t matter how many times I say it to myself. How many times I remind my wolf she isn’t ours. She isn’t Pack. Neither man nor wolf fucking cares.
The only thing either of us gives a damn about is making her mine. The visceral need to see her, to know she’s safe, has me slamming to a stop. My chest heaves with each breath as I force my body back into my human form. This time, the shift is slower. My muscles ache, joints creaking and bones realigning as I shift.
My fingers dig into soft soil as I shake off the lingering pain and push up onto my feet. Fuck. I run my hand through my hair, ignoring the dirt I’m streaking through it.
My wolf wants to claim her. In a very permanent way. It’s un-fucking-convenient. But it doesn’t change the fact I need to see Isa, and recognizing that makes me feel all sorts of ways that I don’t want to think about.
I know she’s home. I know she’s safe. I need to let this insatiable need to see her go, but, dammit, I fucking can’t. I’ll be distracted until I know without a shadow of a doubt that she’s okay.
Forty minutes later I’m pulling up to her house—if you can even call it that. I got the address from Zheng, the fucker. He wasn’t thrilled to give it to me but it’s not like I gave him much of a choice.
Isa’s place has got to be close to ten thousand square feet or more. It’s got twin pillars flanking the front door and massive floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides of the house. The lawn is perfectly kept and rose bushes ring the grass perimeter. This place rivals even the Compound in sheer size alone, and that’s saying something, because the Southwest Pack Compound is home to roughly sixty-five shifters. More live in the surrounding clan houses. But this is insane. All that house for two people?
For a minute I idle in front of the place, staring at the front door as though I can will her to step out of it. I press down the gas, letting the roar of the engine fill the street, and a flutter of movement at one of the second-story windows pulls my gaze.
Isa peaks through pale pink curtains and I incline my head. She huffs and the curtains close. I wait. She knows I’m here. She’ll come.
A few short minutes later she’s closing the front door behind her. Wearing white jeans and an oversized hoodie, she stops beside my car and frowns. “What are you doing here?” She tucks her hair behind her ear, her eyes are still red but the strain on her face from earlier is gone. My shoulders relax and I tilt my head toward the passenger door.
“Get in.”
She shakes her head. “What do you want, Rafael? Shouldn’t you be dealing with Pack business or something?”
I try to tamp down my irritation at her refusal. “Nah. All taken care of. Come on.” She’s still not moving. “Get in the car, Isabella.” Something about saying her full name gets a reaction out of her, and with a muttered curse, she’s opening the passenger side door and slides inside. “Put on your seatbelt.”
She does.
Thank fuck for small favors.
We ride in silence for the first ten minutes before I take her to a different side of town where the suburban streets turn to gravel roads and we ride out into shifter territory.
“Where are we going?” she asks just as I pull up in front of a familiar house nestled in the back of the Pack’s sprawling two-hundred-acre property.
“My place.” I’m not entirely sure why I’m taking her home with me. She’s not Pack. She has no business being here. But I want her beside me. I need to know that she’s okay.
I pull into the driveway of a three-bedroom, ranch-style home and put the car in park. “Come on.”
Isa gets out slowly. She keeps her motions tight and I don’t miss her wince. Fuck. I forgot about her rib. I’ll need to make sure she’s properly wrapped it while she’s here.
She checks her surroundings with an inquisitive stare, her eyes soaking everything in. “This is where you live?”
I nod, searching for any sort of reaction, but all I see is open curiosity. I release a breath. There’s no judgment in her gaze as she takes in the stucco exterior of my home or the fact that the garage door is wide fucking open and my garage looks like a second living room packed full of mismatched sofas with a pool table in the middle. I know she hasn’t lived with Kline
