Page 17 of Torin

And yet, she arrived in a wedding dress, carrying the scent of East Ridge with her. Smoke, booze, dozens of shifters—all mixed together. But beneath them, one scent clung to her more strongly than the others.

Male.

She’s still untouched. But something bad happened to her today.

That much is obvious.

I want to know who the male scent belongs to. I want to know why Hannah is on the run in that dress, and I want to know why the mention of East Ridge frightened her more than finding a naked shifter beside her wrecked truck.

Mostly, I want to turn around and get back to her.

Ten minutes ago, I didn’t know she existed. Now the thought of leaving her alone beside that wreck is driving me fucking crazy. The lodge appears through the trees ahead, and I pick up speed.

Orson’s already here. I catch his scent before I reach the clearing.

At least he had the sense to come straight home after nearly killing someone.

Nearly killing my mate.

A growl tears out of me.

Right now, Hannah is sitting alone beside a wrecked truck, probably wondering if I’m actually going to keep my promise and come back for her.

I shift at the edge of the clearing and head for the back door.

The kitchen is dark when I step inside. If Orson’s hiding in his room, hoping I’ve forgotten what he did, he’s shit out of luck.

He’ll still be here in the morning.

I drag on jeans and a shirt, shove my feet into boots and head back to the kitchen.

My keys are hanging beside the door. I grab them and glance at the clock above the stove. I can make it back inside twenty minutes.

I keep the headlights dipped and drive down the track that leads away from the lodge.

For the first couple of bends, I drive too fast. I know this road well enough to take it almost blind, but the irony of wrapping my own truck around a tree while going to rescue her isn’t lost on me.

I ease off the gas.

My mate.

The words hit me all over again.

A grin spreads across my face.

Fuck me.

I have a mate. She’s human.

My grin gets wider. My bear doesn’t give a shit, and neither do I. I’ve spent years wondering who my mate would be, trying to picture a woman I had no way of knowing yet. Now she has a face.

Long brown hair. Big blue eyes. A stubborn little lift to her chin when she’s scared and determined not to show it.

I don’t know her yet. But now I know who I’ve been waiting for.

And somebody hurt her.

I keep seeing the way she jerked away when I caught her arm, like she’d learned to be afraid of a man grabbing her. The way she froze when I mentioned East Ridge.