Nineteen
Before the pickup door had slammed behind him, Tate had transformed into a wolf, streaking down the most direct trail to the cabin.
The strongest scent on the trail was his own from the early hours of that morning, so whoever was after Arwen, they hadn't come this way.
If it was that turkey vulture shifter or some other flyer...
Tate put on an extra burst of speed, leaping over the stream to follow the deer trail that would get him to Tarn Cottage faster.
He flung open the door to the cottage, shifting before his forepaws could hit the floor. And there she was, collapsed on the tiles. Naked and barely breathing, with that damned chain still around her neck.
Carefully, he lifted the metal links, sliding it over her head until she was free. Then he gathered her unconscious body in his arms and carried her to bed.
She was cold to the touch, but the only injuries he could find were her dry, cracked lips, so he pulled the blankets up over her and fetched her a drink.
A few drops of water, licked away with her pink tongue.
Hope prickled in his chest. He helped her to sit up, and poured the water into her mouth.
She drank, and she swallowed, but her eyes never opened.
Barely alive, but alive nonetheless. He'd reached her in time.
But she was too cold. Lying naked on an unheated floor as the Scottish winter night approached could kill as surely as any poison. He needed to get her warm. So he climbed beneath the blankets with her, wrapped his body around hers, and begged the universe to let his mate live.