My kind are often killed before we can accomplish our destiny.
I don’t have much hope of being any different.
I sniff the air delicately, determined to wring every ounce of pleasure out of my life. My mouth immediately waters at his scent—warm whiskey on a cold night. It’s a little tangy, a little smooth, and a whole lot addicting. I don’t say anything as he gives me directions to his place, the silence almost comfortable. Twenty minutes later, my boat of a car crawls along a rutted back road, trees standing like sentinels on either side of the driveway. The vegetation crowds so close, it’s like they’re trying to peer inside the vehicle to see who is approaching.
Then the road opens up to a small clearing, revealing a couple of acres with questionable maintenance. The house is an old, two-story farmhouse that has seen better days. It’s…big. That’s all I can say about the creaky structure that looks like a good wind could blow it down.
“Uhhh…” The fox rubs the back of his head, a red tinge creeping up his neck. “It’s a rental. We’re still in the process of making it livable.”
“Mm-hmm.” I don’t comment further as we pull up front. Parked nearby is a worn car, a beat-up truck, and an older bike. I eye them dubiously, but despite their shabby appearance, they at least look well maintained. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay here, Foxy?”
I glance down at the blood staining his shirt, noting the cuts and tears in the material, where claws nicked him. While the bruises on his face have faded somewhat, I’m left wondering what injuries I can’t see. My conscience won’t let me abandon him without having anyone to look after him, not after I went through the trouble of saving him.
I’m not sure why I’m so worried. I’ve taken worse beatings from Gramps during training. Nothing appears broken. He’s conscious. He’s a shifter, for fuck’s sake, but I still can’t get rid of my wolf’s insistence that we need to stay and take care of him.
Not going to lie, it low-key freaks me the fuck out, and my feet twitch with the need to run.
Danger, Will Robinson.
Abort!
“I’ll be fine. I’m used to it,” he murmurs, his sad gaze lowering. He reaches for the door, wincing as he pushes it open, and I tighten my hands around the steering wheel until the strangled plastic creaks in warning. Just before he climbs out, he pauses and peers at me with pleading green eyes that spark with hope. “Unless you want to stay for supper? A way to say thank you for rescuing me.”
Indecision wars inside of me. Logic is telling me to slam my foot on the gas, uncaring of the open door, but my stomach turns traitor and rumbles at the mention of food. I was supposed to pick something up at the gas station, but I was distracted.
He flashes his sharp, very white teeth my way in a flirty look, and his whole face lights up when he smiles. “Sounds like it’s settled.”
He hops out of the vehicle a little too quickly, slamming the door shut behind him, and I narrow my eyes suspiciously, wondering if I’ve been bamboozled. As if sensing me watching, he slows his steps…and limps dramatically.
The big faker.
Instead of being annoyed, I bite my lip to contain my amusement.
When was the last time I smiled so much?
Never.
The answer is never.
What can one meal hurt? My stomach gurgles in agreement. Greasy fast-food joints and cheap, day-old gas station food leave much to be desired, and I’ve skipped more meals than is wise in my need to keep moving. Being free from Kyperian is amazing, but the outside realm might as well be an alien world.
The fox pauses on the porch, blinking his big green eyes almost pleadingly at me, and I reluctantly turn off the car. Leaving the keys in the ignition, I slip out and grab my go bag from the back seat, cursing myself for being a fool.
And yet I don’t dive back into my car and leave.
I shoulder my bag and trudge after him, my stomach churning with reservations…and excitement.
Foxy glances at my bag, but I refuse to leave it behind. If I’ve learned anything in the last few months, it’s to keep a pack with me at all times in case I need to run.
Much to my disappointment, assholes and corruption are everywhere. I’m not sure if it’s my heritage, but trouble seeks me out wherever I go. Over the last three months, I’ve taken up rescuing paranormal beings left and right. Jobs are both easier and harder to find than in Kyperian. Anyone can apply for ajob without seeking permission. Unfortunately, I quickly learned you need all types of documentation.
It’s a pain in the ass.
I’ve picked up a few odd jobs here and there along the way, using the skills my gramps taught me—fighting, tracking, hunting, not to mention how to stay concealed and leave no trace. The first job was an accident. I stumbled upon a young witch, no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, being chased by three wolves.
I might have, sort of, nudged the wolves away from him…with my car. The kid didn’t hesitate to jump through the open window, and we made our escape. I spent four days with him, patching him up and learning about the outside world.
Not a day later, I ended up saving him a second time.
