Beasts of Mine

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

EVIE

By the time the research station finally came into view through the trees, I was sweaty, sore, and more than ready to stand on something that wasn't moving beneath me.

The narrow motorboat had been carrying us upriver for nearly three hours.

Normally, I had a decent stomach for boats, but the hard wooden bench had become increasingly uncomfortable as the afternoon wore on.

Every rough patch sent the flat bottom smacking against the river hard enough for the vibration to travel straight through my spine.

The braid down my back was damp with sweat, the loose strands around my face had surrendered to the humidity hours ago, and the cold bottle of water I'd started the trip with had become unpleasantly warm.

Another wave struck the side of the boat and sent muddy river water over the edge, splattering the toes of my hiking boots.

“Seriously?” I muttered, looking down at the fresh droplets running across the worn leather as I pulled the waterproof camera bag more securely against my chest.

The older man steering the boat glanced over his shoulder. Deep lines creased the skin around his eyes, and amusement spread across his face when he noticed how tightly I was holding the bag.

“Camera?” the driver asked, nodding toward the black case before turning his attention back to the bend ahead.

“Very expensive camera,” I answered, shifting it higher in my lap and giving him a small smile. “At this point, I'd probably throw myself in the river before I let this thing go overboard.”

The driver laughed, the sound carrying easily over the motor. He answered in the local language, speaking far too quickly for my limited vocabulary to follow, though I caught enough to know that whatever he'd said had been at my expense.

I couldn't blame him.

My larger backpack was wedged between my boots, packed so tightly that I'd had to sit on it that morning to get the zipper closed.

Six weeks of clothes, toiletries, field supplies, medical equipment, Omega blockers, emergency heat medication, chargers, notebooks, and whatever else I'd convinced myself was essential were crammed inside.

The camera bag wasn't much better.

Two camera bodies, three lenses, spare batteries, memory cards, cleaning equipment, protective covers, and portable storage drives had turned what looked like an ordinary black case into something heavy enough to leave an ache along my shoulder.

There were wildlife photographers who knew how to travel light.

I wasn't one of them.

I shifted on the bench, trying to find a position that didn't irritate my lower back, then returned my attention to the riverbank.

That made the ride worth it. Dense rainforest crowded both sides of the river.

Huge trees rose above everything else, their trunks disappearing into layers of foliage that blocked most of the sky.

Thick vines climbed the bark and hung from branches, while exposed roots twisted down the muddy banks before vanishing beneath the brown water.

The longer I watched, the more details appeared.

Small birds darted between branches. Insects skimmed across the surface of the river.

Red flowers grew in clusters near one tree, while pale yellow blooms crowded another patch closer to the water.

Higher up, several purple orchids clung to the rough bark of a trunk where a narrow break in the canopy allowed sunlight through.

I had worked in rainforests before, but arriving somewhere new always felt different.

I hadn't learned what belonged in the background yet, which meant everything caught my attention—the unfamiliar bird calls, the shape of the leaves, a sudden movement high in the trees, or a plant I couldn't immediately name.

A flash of brilliant blue crossed the river ahead of us.

I straightened immediately.

A blue morpho butterfly drifted over the water, its wings bright whenever they caught the sunlight and darker when they closed. It crossed in front of the boat and disappeared beneath the trees on the opposite bank before I could even get my camera bag open.

“Of course,” I murmured, watching the last place I'd seen it while my fingers rested uselessly against the zipper. The driver glanced back at me again, curiosity briefly replacing the amusement on his face.

“Nothing,” I assured him with a quiet laugh, waving one hand before settling back against the side of the boat. “Photographer problem.”

The driver smiled and shook his head, apparently deciding he'd already learned enough about me to understand.

I had been doing wildlife photography professionally for nearly nine years, and somehow that immediate need to photograph anything interesting still hadn't faded.

I hoped it never did.

The travel itself could be exhausting. I had slept in too many airports, missed connections, dealt with damaged luggage, gotten food poisoning in countries where I barely spoke the language, and spent more nights than I cared to count in rooms where the mattress springs seemed personally offended by my existence.

None of that mattered once I reached the field.

I had photographed wolves moving through snow while my fingers went numb inside my gloves and spent twelve hours cramped inside a hide for a bird that eventually appeared for less than four minutes.

I'd watched elephant calves follow their mothers across dry grasslands and sea turtles make their slow way toward the ocean beneath moonlight.

Every photograph had a story surrounding it that no one else would ever see.

People saw the finished image.

I remembered the hours that came before it.

Maybe that was part of why I kept traveling.

My apartment back home was technically my permanent address, although calling it home sometimes felt like a stretch. It was where my mail went, where I kept furniture I rarely used, and where I emptied one suitcase before eventually filling another.

Three plants sat on my kitchen windowsill, surviving almost entirely because my neighbor had accepted years ago that I couldn't be trusted to keep them alive myself.

My mother hated when I described my life that way.

According to her, I was eventually supposed to get tired of traveling.

One day, I'd wake up craving stability, meet a nice Alpha—or perhaps an established pack—and suddenly realize how wonderful it would be to have people waiting for me every time I came home.

She'd been waiting for that revelation since I was twenty-one.

At twenty-eight, I was beginning to think she might be waiting a while longer.

It wasn't that I disliked packs.

I understood the appeal. As an Omega, I knew how comforting familiar scents could be and how much easier certain instincts became around people you trusted.

Bonds could offer emotional and physical stability, and I'd had more than one lonely night when the idea of returning to a warm, occupied home sounded nice.

But nice wasn't enough to make me build my life around people I hadn't found yet.

I liked the life I'd already made for myself.

Animals didn't question it either, which was another point in their favor. They didn't care whether an Omega should be traveling alone, whether I was getting too comfortable being independent, or if I planned to settle down before my mother lost all patience with me.

Mostly, animals wanted me to keep my distance and stop getting in their way.

That arrangement worked beautifully.

The sound of the motor changed beneath me, pulling my attention forward.

The research station had finally appeared. It blended into the forest so naturally that I might have missed it if I hadn't been searching for signs of human habitation. A narrow wooden dock extended from the muddy bank toward several weathered buildings raised slightly above the ground.

Tin roofs showed between the trees. Solar panels had been positioned wherever someone had managed to find reliable sunlight, and large rain barrels stood beneath gutters along two of the buildings.

Mud-covered boots crowded one porch.

Laundry hung beneath another covered area.

Behind the nearest building sat what I assumed had once been a respectable vegetable garden. Several plants had been eaten almost down to their stems, while one corner of the wire fencing sagged low enough that whatever had gotten inside probably hadn't needed much determination.

I smiled.

It wasn't fancy. It wasn't supposed to be.

I liked it already.

The boat bumped against the dock, and the driver cut the motor. The sudden quiet lasted only a second before insects, distant bird calls, and water moving against the wooden posts filled the space.

“Finally,” I murmured, stretching one stiff leg before carefully pushing myself to my feet.

The driver secured the boat and hauled my oversized backpack onto the dock with considerably less effort than I'd managed that morning.

When he reached toward the camera bag next, I instinctively pulled it closer.

“I carry,” the driver offered, holding out his hand toward the strap while his other hand steadied him against the side of the boat.

“Oh, no, I've got this one,” I told him quickly, then winced when I realized I'd practically snatched the bag away from him. “Sorry. I'm a little weird when it comes to people carrying the cameras.”

The driver glanced pointedly toward the much larger backpack he'd just moved for me before looking back at the camera case.

“Very expensive,” the driver repeated, his mouth curving into the same teasing grin he'd worn earlier.

“Exactly,” I replied, pointing toward him as I stepped onto the dock. “See? You understand me now.”

The driver's laughter followed me as I headed toward shore. Without the constant movement of the boat, the humidity became far more noticeable. Warm moisture settled over my skin, and within seconds the back of my shirt was sticking between my shoulder blades.

The air smelled different here too.