The creak of that bloody tree branch got on Quinn’s last nerve. Twigs brushed his bedroom window at the front of the cabin, the squeak and drag of them on the glass keeping him awake. He’d have to cut the tree back, there was nothing else for it. Another job to add to his seemingly never-ending list. He turned onto his side, shoving the pillow over his head to block out the noise. Ten more minutes of trying to get back to sleep, and if he couldn’t, then he was getting up.
Again with the creak and the scratches. He gritted his teeth, longing for sleep. The busy day he’d had chopping wood for the fire meant his body was exhausted, but his mind…
The visual of a creature out there attempting to get inside filled his head.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”
Quinn sat up. A shift and a run might do him some good, blow away those nasty cobwebs and help him relax. Who said living out in the middle of nowhere was a balm to the soul? He had—and his friends back in London had told him otherwise. He hadn’t listened, of course he hadn’t. Doing his own thing, heeding the voice in his head, had always seen him right in the past and it would see him right now. A misbehaving branch that creeped him out wasn’t going to send him scuttling back to the city.
He shuffled downstairs, the chill of the night wafting around him, and made his way to the kitchen. Flicking on the light, he stood staring at the mess he’d left from earlier. Pots and pans needed washing, his clean laundry sat in a tall pile on the table, and he’d forgotten to put the rest of the damn stew in the fridge.
It could all wait. The call of his wolf was strong tonight, and he wasn’t about to ignore the mourning howl. It had been a while since he’d shifted—he’d been too busy doing this place up and making it habitable. He’d bought it for a song with the money left to him when his grandfather had passed away and he intended to live his days out here. Alone.
Unlocking the kitchen door, he stared out into the blackness through the glass in the top. A bright moon shone behind the waving arms of the forest trees at the bottom of his garden, and a breeze snuck around his legs. He stepped outside, the path cold on his feet, closed the door, and shifted. His dark gray fur rippled, his hackles rose, and he sensed danger in the air. Unusual for these parts. Alarmed, he tilted his head, listening for sounds other than those he was used to.
Nothing untoward, just the creak of that damn tree in the front garden and the silky whispers of the wind filtering through the leaves. He shrugged off the ominous feeling crawling over his skin and padded round the property, eyes keen and his senses on full alert. Nobody was about, no animals either, and he relaxed a tad.
At the rear of the cabin, he made for the forest. It was small and bordered the back of his land, and as he broke through to the other side, he slowed to a standstill so he could take in the view. A main road ran down the bottom of a field and snaked up the hill on the right, abutted by waist-high hedges that the local authority maintained. It was rare to see traffic at this time of night—rare in the daytime, too, come to think of it—but if Quinn wasn’t mistaken, a set of headlights was out in the distance, heading down the hill toward him.
Quinn ran to the road and pushed into the hedge, waiting for the car to pass. He fancied a run opposite, on the hill then over to the other side so he could sit and stare at the nighttime lights of the nearby village. He’d have a chance to think about his next project, which was turning his small attic into a studio. He could create his art up there without getting paint on his new furniture in the kitchen where he currently worked.
The car drew closer, at the bottom of the hill now, and made its way along the straight bit of the road in front of him. A scuffle in the field behind had him whipping around, and he poked his head out of the hedge to see what had made the noise.
A wolf was running across the field. The animal appeared weary, its gait sloppy, tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. The moon afforded enough light for Quinn to make out gray fur much like his own, and a scruff of white on its chest. For a moment, Quinn dared to hope it was another shifter, but why would one be out here? He’d thought he was the only wolf around these parts. Unless it lived among the humans in the village and Quinn had never scented it?
The sound of the car engine grew louder, and the vehicle swooshed past, the displaced air ruffling Quinn’s tail. He glanced through the dense leaves to his right to see it was a dark-colored truck with a flat bed, and a man was kneeling in it, a rifle pointed at the field.
Wait. A rifle?
What the fuck?
A loud crack, a yowl from the wolf, a whoop from the man, then the truck sped up. It drove away, and Quinn realized that the wolf was being hunted. Maybe the truck belonged to the local farmer and he was out with whoever was driving in search of the animal that had been worrying his sheep lately. Quinn had taken it that it was a fox or stray dog, not a wolf. Talk of the killed sheep had been rife the last time Quinn had visited the farm for butter, and folks around here weren’t happy.
The red tail lights of the truck faded into the distance, and once they had disappeared, Quinn ventured out from the hedge. His heart wasn’t feeling too clever, what with it beating so fast, and he took a moment to control his breathing and calm down. If the wolf wasn’t a shifter and it was feral, Quinn wouldn’t be able to help it. He’d have to ring the RSPCA and let them deal with it. But what if it was a shifter? Some man or woman? All right, it could heal itself once it shifted to human, but what if it was too injured to shift?
Sodding hell. This was all he needed. Still, an injured creature wasn’t something Quinn could ignore, so he cautiously ran toward where he thought the wolf might be. It was too dark to see clearly now, the moon having hidden behind a cloud from the horror of the attempted murder. Quinn wished he could do the same, wished he hadn’t come out for a run, but he had, and he had to deal with whatever awaited him over there on the grass.
He scented the air, waiting for the breeze to bring the smell of the wolf to him. There it was, strong but getting fainter by the second, and he rushed onward, desperate not to lose the link. A more disturbing smell came, then. Blood. So the farmer’s bullet had met its mark. Quinn shuddered. The animal must be in pain, but where the hell was it?
Quinn ran into the forest, the wolf’s scent lingering ahead of him. He followed it through then out into his back garden, and narrowed his eyes to concentrate better. The light from his kitchen streamed through the window, illuminating the grass, his flower borders, and the potted plants lined up below the window. No wolf was in his garden, but by fuck it had been here.
He patrolled the outside of his cabin and, seeing or smelling nothing out the front, he returned to the back garden. He sniffed and caught the scent of his own home, familiar and comforting. The kitchen door was ajar, and his stomach rolled over. Had the animal gone into Quinn’s home? What if it was whole wolf, not shifter? What the hell was Quinn going to do with it?
He panted to steady his nerves then took a moment to decide whether to remain wolf or shift. Wolf won out—it would be easier if he had to defend himself. He crept toward the door then nosed it open. Yes, the wolf was in there.
Fuck it.
Quinn stepped in, nerves frazzled more than they’d been earlier when the branches had scraped his window. Blood spatters and dirty paw prints decorated his new white floor tiles, and the smell of the animal crowded him, bringing on the need to retch.
Where are you?
He skirted the mess on the floor and made his way toward the hallway. Approaching as quietly as he could, he was brought up short by the sight of human feet and calves, half in the kitchen, half out. It looked like whoever they belonged to had collapsed. Quinn remained wolf—again, easier if he had to defend himself—and moved closer until he could see the whole hallway.
And the whole man, sprawled out on the glossy wooden floor.
Naked and on his side, the bloke had rested his cheek on the top of his arm. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing too quickly. Maybe he had only just shifted, but shit, Quinn was glad he had. The man would heal now, although if the bullets had gone into him and not just grazed him…
Quinn shifted then crouched beside the man. He turned him onto his back. A bullet had grazed his chest, and for a second Quinn imagined that white blaze of the running wolf and how it would have stained the beautiful fur. Reaching out, knowing he maybe shouldn’t, he ran his thumb over the wound to check if a hole hid beneath the blood. It didn’t, and relief poured into him. There would be no digging out of bullets tonight, thank God.
The man’s eyelids fluttered, and Quinn rose then stepped back, on his guard in case the bloke turned violent upon realizing someone was in the house with him. His dark hair, short and not unlike a military man’s, was soaked in sweat, and his close-cropped beard gave him a rugged look. Body toned and obviously used to being worked out, the muscles defined, the skin tight, made him appear in his early thirties.
“Who are you, and where did you come from?” Quinn muttered.
“Goddard. London.”
Quinn took another step back. Goddard opened his eyes and peered at Quinn with irises blacker than night. He sat up slowly then stared at his chest.
“Have you seen anyone about?” Goddard asked.
“What, out there with you, you mean?” Conscious he was naked, Quinn backed fully into the kitchen, keeping his attention on Goddard the whole time, and moved to his table, reaching for the pile of washing. While he blindly felt for a pair of jogging bottoms, the familiar fabric brushed his fingertips then he slid them on. “Yeah, I saw someone. In the back of a truck shooting at a bloody wolf.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, ah. I didn’t know there was another wolf around here.” Quinn clamped his mouth shut. Too late now, though.
“Another wolf?” Goddard rose to his feet, unsteady but none the worse for wear really, considering he’d been shot. He held his hands out. “I’m not planning to hurt you, all right?”
“That’s nice to know.” Quinn kept his fear at bay. If he let it show on his face, he reckoned he’d be done for. Goddard was over six feet and Quinn was only five-eight. If it came to a fight in human form, Quinn would most probably lose.
“I just need…to sit down a minute.”
Quinn reversed to the counter while Goddard walked into the kitchen then slumped on one of the chairs around the small wooden table.
“Want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” Quinn asked, grabbing the wet mop from the bucket by the door and swiping up the blood and mud. “And I’m Quinn, by the way. Will tea do you? I’m all out of coffee.”
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