21. Ryder #2
The pain builds to one final unbearable peak and then—
Nothing.
Silence crashes down around me so suddenly that for several seconds I simply lie there panting, trembling, waiting for the next wave.
My chest heaves with each breath. My heart pounds. Sweat—or whatever passes for sweat now—dampens my skin beneath the thick coat of fur covering my body.
Fur.
Jesus Christ.
Slowly, terrified of what I’m going to see, I lower my gaze.
Paws rest on the concrete where my hands should be.
Large paws.
Grey and black and undeniably animal.
I stare at them for a long time, unable to think, unable to breathe properly, unable to process what has happened to me.
Then I catch my reflection in a piece of broken glass lying near the wall.
The face staring back isn’t mine. It belongs to a wolf. And for the first time since waking up in that room, real terror settles into my bones.
Because whatever Drake has done to me, there is no going back from it.
I force the memory away and open my eyes, staring out across the street until the present settles around me again.
The transformation isn’t the part I remember most clearly anymore.
You’d think it would be. You’d think waking up in a body that suddenly belonged to something else would be the thing that haunted me, but it isn’t.
The thing that stayed with me, the thing that still crawls into my head when I least expect it, was waking up alone afterwards.
Drake didn’t stay. He didn’t explain anything.
He didn’t tell me what he’d done or why he’d done it.
He simply changed my entire life and vanished, leaving me to figure it out on my own.
Maybe that’s why I hate him so much.
The pain eventually faded. The confusion didn’t.
For months I wandered around trying to make sense of things that made no sense at all.
I learned through trial and error what I could do, what I couldn’t do, what happened when I got angry, what happened when I got scared, and what happened when every instinct in my body seemed determined to make me lose my mind.
There wasn’t a handbook for newly turned wolves.
There wasn’t some kindly old werewolf waiting in a cabin somewhere to explain the rules.
There was only me, sleeping wherever I could, trying not to draw attention to myself.
The stupid part is that I probably should have gone looking for Harley sooner.
I know that now.
Back then I convinced myself I was protecting him by staying away.
I told myself he was safer if I didn’t drag him into whatever nightmare Drake had dumped me into.
The truth is a lot less noble. I was embarrassed.
Ashamed. Terrified he’d look at me and see a monster.
Terrified he’d be afraid of me. Terrified he’d ask questions I couldn’t answer.
So I stayed away.
And then, months later, I saw Drake again.
The memory hits me hard enough that I sit up straighter on the roof.
That day had started like every other miserable day during that first year.
I’d slept behind a closed-down diner outside Flagstaff, spent half the morning trying to avoid a security guard who seemed weirdly determined to chase me away, and eventually wandered into town looking for food.
I wasn’t thinking about Drake anymore. I’d spent so much time convincing myself he was gone that I’d almost started believing it.
I catch his scent.
I don’t fully understand what that means. I just know there are certain smells I can’t forget no matter how hard I try, and Drake’s is one of them.
The second it hits me, I stop walking.
I’m standing on a crowded sidewalk with people moving around me, traffic rolling past, somebody yelling at another driver halfway down the block, and suddenly none of it matters because every instinct I possess is screaming at me to run.
The trouble is, I’m no longer sure if I want to run toward him or away.
I don’t want to be anywhere near him, but I’m so furious that I also want to tear his throat out and my wolf agrees.
So, I follow. I want answers more than I want safety.
For months I’ve been alone. For months I’ve been trying to figure out what happened to me, why I can turn into a wolf, why I can hear things nobody else hears, why every dog I pass either wants to attack me or run from me. Every question leads back to one person.
Drake.
So when I catch his scent drifting through the crowd, that rage inside me wins.
I turn and start walking.
The smell isn’t strong. Not at first anyway.
It weaves through the city around me, tangled up with exhaust fumes, hot asphalt, food from a nearby restaurant, and a thousand human scents I still haven’t learned how to ignore properly.
More than once I lose it completely and think I’ve imagined the whole thing, but then I catch it again and change direction.
The trail leads me several blocks from the main street and into a part of town I don’t recognize. The buildings get older. The people get scarcer. And the smell gets stronger.
My nerves are stretched tight.
Something feels off. I don’t know how to explain it. The closer I get, the more uneasy I become. My wolf is still something I barely understand, but he’s there, buried beneath my skin, and he doesn’t like this either. I can feel his discomfort bleeding into my own.
Every instinct tells me to leave.
Every instinct tells me danger is waiting ahead.
I ignore all of them.
The scent leads me to an abandoned warehouse sitting by itself at the edge of an industrial lot. Most of the windows are boarded over. The chain-link fence surrounding it has been cut in several places. Nothing about the building says people should be using it.
Which means, of course, people are.
I crouch behind a rusted dumpster across the street and watch.
For a long time, nothing happens. Then the side door opens and Drake walks out. The sight of him sends a chill straight through me. He’s exactly the same as I remember. Same handsome face. Same easy smile that makes him look trustworthy.
He doesn’t look like a monster and that’s probably the most dangerous thing about him.
He looks normal.
A few seconds later two more men follow him outside.
They’re young. Pretty. The sort of guys who probably get whatever they want with a smile and a little flirting.
They’re also staring at Drake like he’s the centre of their universe. The dynamic is obvious even from where I’m hiding. One of them says something that makes Drake laugh. The other immediately joins in.
Because that afternoon is the first time I realized that Drake isn’t finished.
I drag a hand over my face and force myself to breathe. The memory got to me, that’s all. It happens sometimes. A scent or a sound will pull me backward and for a few seconds afterward I can’t quite separate the past from the present. That’s all this is.
Then the wind shifts and I scent him. Drake.
My stomach drops so fast it feels like somebody kicked me in the gut.
“No.”
The word slips out before I realize I’ve spoken. I rise into a crouch and slowly turn my head, searching the surrounding rooftops, the alley behind Harley’s building, the street below, but I don’t see anything. That almost makes it worse. Drake is here. I know he’s here. Every part of me knows it.
The realization has barely settled when my wolf explodes with warning.
Something hits me from behind with enough force to lift me completely off my feet. One second I’m balanced on the roof and the next I’m airborne, pain exploding through my ribs as I slam into the concrete hard enough to drive every bit of air from my lungs.
I roll on instinct.
Thank God I do.
Teeth snap shut where my throat were a fraction of a second earlier.
One of Drake’s shifters. Recognition hits at the same time as fury. I’ve smelled him before. He’s one of the men from the warehouse. One of the followers who looked at Drake like he hung the moon and stars.
The wolf snarls and lunges again before I can fully regain my footing, and this time I meet him head-on, only to realize he isn’t alone.