Chapter Four
DANTE
“Foxy?” I mutter, highly amused, despite the dire situation. My beast thrashes beneath my skin, a furious snarl escaping him, enraged at the thought of anyone controlling us. My fingers twitch with the need to snap her neck, but damned if I’m able to move.
The rational part of my brain is curious how she manages such a feat when no one else can contain us.
Including myself.
I’d been wandering for what felt like decades when I stumbled across the guys.
I’ve been staying with them for three years now, living under the radar, doing everything not to draw attention to myself.
I’m one of the last of my kind, maybe a dozen of us remain, and that’s a good thing, since we’re pure psychopaths.
I’m a fabled skinwalker.
Something about us being able to shift into one creature after another fractures our psyche or some shit. As long as we’ve tasted their blood, we can turn into them. We’ve been hunted to near extinction, thanks to fear or straight-up jealousy.
If you can kill us and take our skins, you can steal our abilities. Lies, of course. That special talent is reserved for skinwalkers alone. We’re considered the ultimate predators—and the ultimate challenge if you can take us down—expecially by our own species.
The only way we survive is by blending and adapting.
And what is quicker than stealing someone else’s existence and stepping into their life?
Many people have forgotten we existed, lost to the annals of time, and that’s the way we like it.
The other two men are as big of misfits as I am, making them unsuitable for life in a pack. We shouldn’t get along. We’re complete opposites, not to mention alphas in our own right. Yet somehow, we work.
We never stay in any place for too long, always on the move, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves and our unusual quirks. Though it’s a hard way to live for shifters who thrive on being part of a pack, our fucked-up family works.
I’ll be damned if I allow a female to endanger us…no matter how gorgeous a temptation.
I glance at Tyler, smothering my concern, and focus on the threat. He grimaces when I mention his cute little nickname, but it’s the girl who answers me, gently wiggling out from under the pile until she’s crouched next to him.
“Foxy kept things mysterious and neglected to introduce himself,” she murmurs, peeling the shirt from his back to reveal deep claw marks raked down his spine.
Her attention is focused on the fox, completely oblivious to the feral wolf frozen just a foot away, despite every panting breath he takes rippling the silken strands of her blonde hair.
Tyler remains in a plank position where he was crouched protectively over the girl, and it’s only when she nudges him that he drops, stretching out across the floor. Though his fingers wiggle, he’s still as frozen as the rest of us—vulnerable.
My beast snarls in agitation. Tyler isn’t weak, he’s an alpha in his own right, but he’s still only a fox.
While he can be as cunning and cutthroat as the rest of us, just as savage, he has a soft spot for strays—especially cute damsels in distress that have legs for days…
though he normally doesn’t bring them home.
I’ll admit, he has good taste.
She’s a tempting little morsel, full of spunk and moxie, but she doesn’t belong here.
We made a vow to never bring our fuck bunnies home.
“Kick over my bag,” the minx orders me. I’m ready to snort at her demand…then my eyes widen when I do exactly what she says.
What the fuck?!
I wait for my beast to break her hold, but instead of being outraged, her voice soothes the creature, and he calms, as if waiting for her next order.
Again…
What the fuck?!
It’s like she siphoned all my rage, leaving me floundering with…emotions.
Fuck!
The girl begins rummaging inside the backpack, and I tense when Garth growls, the mutt trembling with rage.
Yet he remains frozen.
Who exactly is this girl?
I’m unsure if I’m worried for the twit if he breaks loose or concerned about what she is grabbing from the bag. It’s the reason we interrupted them in the first place. The instant Tyler had his back turned, she began rummaging inside…for a weapon?
We couldn’t take the chance.
But instead of pulling out a knife, she’s holding an innocent-looking bottle. Ignoring us completely, she leans over Tyler, concern clouding her expression. “This will be painful, but it will help you heal faster.”
I want to tell her to fuck off, but the blood is still pooling below him at an alarming rate.
He’s not healing.
At least he’s not healing fast enough, and my gut churns with dread. What the fuck is wrong with him? Did she do something to him before we arrived? “Why isn’t he healing?”
The girl twitches, like I shocked her with a cattle prod, her grip tightening protectively around the bottle.
“His fox is overtaxed and can’t heal all his injuries.
The more he tries, the faster it wears down his animal.
He’s been trying to heal the same injuries over and over again for weeks, and his reserves are exhausted. ”
She focuses back on Tyler, her touch hesitant on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
Before he can respond, she vigorously shakes the bottle, then pops off the lid. She murmurs a connotation in a musical language that tickles my brain, the potion in the bottle glowing brighter and brighter, the liquid swirling with little specks of light.
Just as she finishes speaking, steam rises from the mixture.
She doesn’t hesitate to lift the bottle and pour the concoction directly into the raw wounds along his spine.
Tyler arches away from the pain, his mouth opening on a silent scream, and I watch in horror as the liquid seems to grow fangs and claws and burrow itself into his flesh.
Tiny bumps move under his skin, like critters crawling beneath, and bile threatens to rise in my throat.
A shudder passes through him, his body rigid as he fights whatever poison she dumped into him.
A constant snarl rumbles from Garth, the poor asshole lost to his feral rage.
He fights her hold as well, but I very much fear that if he broke loose, he would slaughter us all—which leaves me to deal with the little intruder myself.
I fight the command holding me, but I remain frustratingly immobile. My beast is agitated, more pissed that I would dare harm the girl than worried about our pack. It’s fucked up. Yet no matter how I struggle, I’m unable to break her hold.
Wait!
Tyler was able to move when she poured the mixture into his wounds.
The pain snapped him out of whatever trap she set.
I flick through the different animals I hold, but I ultimately decide to stick to the illusion that I’m a wolf. She’s so slippery that I don’t want her to be aware of my secret, in case she manages to slink away before I can slice her pretty little throat.
My beast snarls at the thought, and I purse my lips at the moody bastard. Once he tastes her blood, he’ll get over his snit. He can’t resist a good bloodbath. Maybe we’ll keep her alive for a while, spread out her death over a few days, payment for the way she’s torturing Tyler.
Claws slice through the tips of my fingers, and tiny drops of blood splatter the ground, my beast ultimately bending to my will.
When you’re a shifter, pain is relative when every shift cracks bones and shreds flesh.
Not that all shifters have the same experience.
For some, the agony is over in seconds, while others have it stretched over fifteen minutes or longer.
Thankfully, I’ve always been an alpha. Most skinwalkers are born that way. It allows us to survive without a pack. Usually, our first shift is at puberty. If we’re lucky, our parents abandon us. If not, we’re sold off for parts to witches and warlocks, our blood and bones used in powerful spells.
When the horrors of my childhood threaten to drag me into the dark recesses of my mind, I don’t even hesitate to slam my claws into my thigh. Pain ripples through my body, stealing my breath, but her hold remains strong. Gritting my teeth, I gouge my claws deeper, slicing flesh until I reach bone.
My muscles loosen so fucking slowly that I feel like I’m moving through quicksand.
My focus is on the delicate nape of her neck, my fangs lengthening with the need to sink them into her flesh.
As I take a step forward, Tyler relaxes against the floor, a relieved breath escaping him.
For a second, I worry he died while I did nothing but watch.
Then I notice the steady rise and fall of his back—his healed back.
Not a bruise, scar, or cut remains.
Even the wounds Garth inflicted, ones that are resistant to shifter healing and witch’s magic.
Everything is gone.
I’m not even aware of stepping toward them until the girl spins into a crouch, facing me with a tiny dagger in her hand.
I barely resist rolling my eyes.
Like that would stop me.
But I do stop, not wanting to frighten her off. The need to take her blood isn’t gone. In fact, it’s stronger than ever, my beast craving the taste of her. I’m not aware of licking my lips until her eyes narrow, and she slowly rises to her feet, blade in one hand and her backpack in the other.
“Sorry, Foxy, but I’m going to have to take a rain check on that meal. You do sure know how to show a girl a good time, though.” She doesn’t even finish speaking before Tyler reaches out and wraps his hand around her ankle.
“Please…don’t go,” he says hoarsely, his eyes pleading as he gazes up at her. “You saved me twice now. You’re exhausted, and it’s late. The least I can do is feed you. Please.”
I keep my mouth shut, because if there is anyone in our group who can convince her to stay, it would be the sneaky fox—not that he’s skilled with women. No, it’s his sincerity and innocence that gets them…something neither I nor Garth can pull off without looking like we’re passing gas.