Reverence (Southwestern Shifters #5)

Prologue

Harley

Another nightmare drags me from a restless sleep.

I jerk upright in bed, instantly alert, terrified of everything and nothing.

Sweat drips from my brow into my eyes as I gasp, trying to pull enough air into my lungs so I don’t feel like I’m suffocating.

The more I gasp, the less air I seem to get, and some small, sane part of my brain tells me to slow the fuck down before I hyperventilate myself into unconsciousness.

Unconsciousness doesn’t seem like such a bad idea actually.

I press a fist to my diaphragm and close my eyes as I struggle against the urge to just give up. I’m alive, no one’s trying to harm me now. At least I don’t think they are. Then again, I am living in the middle of my enemies, aren’t I?

I can’t figure it out right now, or any other time for that matter.

There isn’t any point trying to sort out my thoughts at…

I rub at my eyes, grimacing at the sting as I try, and fail to see the time.

My breaths are somewhat steadier now, not so harsh, not so panicked.

My vision clear and the bedside clock glows in glaring red numbers: a quarter after three in the morning.

I flop back down and close my eyes, but the sheets are sweat-soaked.

So are my boxers and shirt, apparently. It makes for an uncomfortable, cold and clammy experience I don’t care for.

Besides, as soon as my head hits the pillow and I close my eyes, my heart starts racing again, like I’m on the verge of a panic attack.

I’ve had a couple of those damned things, and they suck.

Sitting up again, I open my eyes and look around the room. It isn’t pitch dark, because I don’t think I could handle that, but it isn’t my room. I’m being kept here, supposedly for my own safety.

“Right. Whatever. Fucking werewolves.”

I scoot around and put my feet on the floor.

The carpet feels warm and plush between my toes as I wiggle them.

Guilt slaps at me as soon as I experience a bit of pleasure.

I have no right to be comfortable here, or rather, no one else has any right to expect me to be comfortable or happy to be here.

I want to go home. I’m scared to go home. I don’t know what I want, but it isn’t to stay where I am. Restless and gross with sweat, I get up and stumble to the bathroom. A quick rinse and clean clothes don’t make me feel any better, but at least I don’t reek.

Pacing is out. I’ve paced and paced and paced over the last few weeks when the nightmares wake me. I hate feeling like a caged animal. I’ve been told I don’t have to stay locked in my room, but as creepy as the werewolves are, my room has been my sanctuary.

Except right now, it feels more like a prison. “God damn it, I want to leave!” I stomp one foot and immediately hate myself for acting like a cross toddler. “Ugh!” If I stay in my room much longer, I really am going to lose my fucking mind, or what’s left of it.

I creep toward the door. Would there be any other people—werewolves—awake at this hour? I snort at myself. Stupid question. We were just attacked a couple weeks ago and you can bet there’s all kinds of werewolfy security all over the place. But I was promised it’s safe for me if I want to explore…

Do I want to do that? I glance around my room and feel the walls closing in on me.

I turn back and grab the doorknob. If nothing else, I’m just going to step out into the hallway.

The slight sound of shuffling feet makes me hesitate.

I press my ear to the door and concentrate.

I suspect what I heard were the guards moving away when they heard me approach.

They’re supposedly here for my protection, and honestly, I haven’t had a problem with any of them. I still don’t like them, though.

I shift a few inches and look through the peephole. No one’s in sight, but that doesn’t mean much considering the limited view the little hole provides. I’m just going to have to open the door.

Which is harder than it sounds, because my hands are shaking and I keep telling myself I have nothing to fear and it just isn’t working.

But I still manage to twist the knob. With very little effort, the door opens an inch.

I take three deep breaths before I crane my neck and peer through the crack.

I see nothing but hallway, and even though I suspect I’m still being watched, that my guards are nearby, at least I can’t see or hear them, so I can pretend, maybe, that I’m alone.

Desperation to escape the room I’ve been trapped in constantly spurs me forward. Maybe I can find a way out, a way to escape the werewolves who claim to be on my side. There have to be exits and entrances in this enormous adobe mansion.

The hallway is deserted as far as I can tell. If there are scuffling footsteps or whispering voices, I can’t hear them over the pounding of my own heartbeat. It sounds like a damned kettle drum in my ears, or a gong—something big and noisy and aurally overpowering.

I keep one hand on the wall as I move slowly toward what I think is the living area.

I’ve only seen it once, when I was first brought through on the way to my room.

Maybe it’s where all the werewolves gather to watch scary movies and eat popcorn.

I almost laugh at that. What kind of movies would scare werewolves?

Ones about dog catchers or massive parvovirus infections?

Do wolves even get parvo, or is that a domesticated-dog-only disease?

I silently scoff at my attempts to distract myself.

I suck at it. My mind keeps throwing out visuals I don’t want to see—men turning into wolves, blood and fear and death.

I stop and lean against the wall. I should just go back to my room. I should…

There’s an odd tingling sensation in my belly, and it makes me suck in a sharp breath, surprised as warmth infuses my veins. What the hell is going on? I feel… I lower my eyelids and run a hand down my chest. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was feeling the beginnings of arousal.

Right. Because I am so fucking turned on by what?

The wall under my fingertips? Whatever. I creep to the end of the hall.

That weird, almost effervescent feeling is still trying to kick up in my belly, maybe even my groin, but I’m not having any of it.

I stomp it down with memories of being attacked by psychotic werewolves.

Still, I keep moving, drawn forward in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

The idea that something almost unworldly is leading me is too bizarre to entertain for long.

Yet I walk on, aware of the utter solitude of the place.

Surely it should be bustling with guards at all hours?

Maybe my guards cleared the area for me.

Then again, I can’t fathom why the werewolves would do anything nice for me.

I know killing me would probably make a few of them happy. They’re a twisted bunch of freaks.

I cross the living area and belatedly check the door.

One glance over my shoulder is enough to see the numerous bolts ensuring the place is locked tight.

The windows have locks and bars too, for that whole security-overkill sensation I’m sure is hip in the werewolf world.

Probably goes hand in paw with bone-printed doggie dishes for bowls and rawhide chews for snacks.

All beds courtesy of Pet Supplies R Us. Or maybe some weird wildlife preservation fund.

I turn back to exploring my prison, even if the werewolves swear I’m not a prisoner. They won’t let me leave, and I want to, so what the fuck does that make me if not a prisoner?

Another long stretch of hallway lies before me.

I consider heading toward where I think the kitchen might be—milk would be awesome—but something catches my attention.

I hear the low murmur of voices from a room on the left, and I forget about milk as I try to decide if I should run back to my room.

I don’t want to see anyone else. I damn sure don’t want to chat with any of the freaks here.

But I don’t turn around, because there’s a tantalising scent I can barely detect. I’m not even sure I’m really smelling it. For all I know, it’s a figment of my imagination, because what could possibly be putting out such an irresistible aroma?

I sniff and frown. The hall smells like cleaner. So what the hell am I doing? I try again, and while my stomach warms with anticipation, I don’t know of what, or why.

Curious, more so than fearful, I tiptoe toward the room the voices are coming from. I stop before getting too close; the door has one of those frosted half-windows that begins about chest high—for me, at least. I can see blurry shapes, but not much else.

My heartbeat kicks up and dizziness hits me. I lean against the wall for a moment. I hear footsteps from that room, footsteps growing louder.

Fear of discovery spikes and I open the first door I reach, right beside the frosted one.

I just close it when the other door opens and a woman steps out, followed by a werewolf I know and fear more than most. Marcus Criswell is big, and he exudes a power that makes me very uncomfortable.

If I were a cat, my fur would be standing on end and I’d be doing the whole arched-back-and-hissing thing.

But I’m nothing more than one short, scared guy, so I hide in the other room.

I keep the door open a hair and hope no one notices.

I want to know what’s going on in the room they just left.

I recognise the woman, too. Shania, the doctor.

She examined me as much as I allowed before I started freaking out about her touching me.

“I don’t know, Marcus. He’s non-responsive, and the scarring has only faded, it hasn’t gone away.

I suspect he was exposed to a toxin that prevents complete healing like our species is capable of.

” Shania sighs. “I don’t know if he’s going to live, or if he’d want to.

The break was bad, very bad. He might have a limp, he might have brain damage, he might die, Marcus. ”

“Fuck that,” Marcus snarls, and I quiver, fear almost making me whimper. “He’s held on for this long, he’ll come out of it. If he’s scarred, he won’t be the only one of us who is.”

“But these scars—”

“Are proof of his strength, his determination,” Marcus snaps. “He’ll wake up from this…this…” He gestures toward the frosted door. “Coma or whatever it is. Clearly he isn’t meant to die or he’d have done so. He will not die.”

“Yes, Alpha Anax.”

Shania sighs and tilts her head as she inhales. She frowns and I nearly wet myself at the thought she might have scented me. “Do you—”

“Think you should join me for a cup of tea, yes, I do.” Marcus takes her by the elbow, his expression fierce enough to terrify anyone, and leads her away while murmuring in her ear.

I have no idea what he says. I’m just relieved when they disappear. I wait a minute—about as long as I can stand—then step out and head back to the room they exited. Who were they talking about? It’s intriguing, in a way.

That’s why I open the door, I tell myself. That’s why I close it quietly behind me and look around the medical room. Five hospital-type beds. Only one occupied.

I’m drawn to it before I even realise I’m moving.

The man lying there is swathed in bandages. Tubes. Beeping machines. A cast on one leg. His body jerks with each breath and it dawns on me that a machine is breathing for him.

I bite my lip. I might not like the supernatural freaks, but I don’t wish this kind of suffering on any of them. Well, none of the ones who didn’t try to hurt me.

I step closer. My arm shakes as I extend it, and I growl under my breath at my body’s reaction. It takes almost everything I have to steady myself, but I do. With one finger, I brush over his swollen hand.

The touch jolts me. Like a live wire.

I yelp and jerk back, glaring at him before realising that’s ridiculous. I focus instead on the wires. I must’ve brushed something wrong. There’s no other explanation.

Unless it’s in my head, which it probably is. I grab a lock of my own hair and pull until my eyes water, then let go. I didn’t feel a shock. I didn’t feel arousal. I didn’t smell anything except antiseptic.

And yet turning away from him almost hurts. And that scares me more than anything.

I don’t even care if I wake everyone in the damned place. I run hell-bent for my room.

I am never leaving it again unless I get to go home.