Page 15 of Shifted Desire

Great. I get to spend more time with the man I’ve crushed on for over a decade, but who clearly doesn’t enjoy being in the same room as me.

As if I wasn’t already demoralized enough about my dumpster fire of a life.

6

My pulse pounds in time with the slap of my feet on the treadmill as I stare into the forest mural, feebly pretending I’m anywhere but here. That my thoughts are of nothing but the scent of crisp pine and mulch and the creaking of branches and the crunch of leaves underfoot.

I run and run and run, but there’s no outpacing the thrumming in my blood and my spiraling mind.

My legs shake and my heart threatens to burst out of my chest, sweat pouring down my brow and stinging my eyes, but even the threat of physical collapse doesn’t do the trick.

With a panting gasp, I slow the treadmill to a walk and scrub a hand over my face, scrunching my eyes shut as I fight to catch my breath. My nails rake against my stubble, sharper than they should be. My teeth feel too big for my mouth and my bones ache. And to top everything off, there’s the red-hot pulsing at the base of my damn dick, reminding me of what my wolf wants.

Well, too fucking bad because it’s not getting it.

Fucking my best friend’s daughter by mistake is one thing. Pursuing something with their daughter, knowing who she is, is entirely something else.

My wolf can snarl inside me, demanding I go back to Shane and Elle’s house, break down the door, and ravage her—consensually—but that’s never going to happen.

Gods, I knew going to that kink club was a bad idea. I should’ve learned from past mistakes and found a hookup through that paranormal dating app, Bewitch’d. At least then I would’ve known who I was fucking and not stuck my dick into one of the few people on the planet that is one-hundred percent off-limits.

The treadmill slows to a stop, but it takes a few long moments to will my destroyed legs to move. When I finally step off, my left knee almost buckles.

I try my best to stay fit, but nothing can stop time. Even with the supernatural curse in my blood, my body isn’t what it used to be, and it takes me longer to recover from injuries.

A voice in the back of my head whispers that if I regularly shifted with the full moon instead of suppressing it almost every month of the year, my body would bounce back. That I wouldn’t have to deal with my aching knee and the chronic stiffness in my spine or even the contacts that I’ve had to start wearing because my vision is worsening, if I let my body go through that change. Because while lycanthropy is referred to as a curse, it’s actually a magic virus that causes genetic mutations and turbo-charges the regeneration of cells, along with some other shit I’m not smart enough to fully understand.

Rubbing my knee, I grimace and hobble my way to the shower, where I spend far too long under the scalding water, forehead resting against the tile as I mutter curses and beg my body to calm down.

The full moon is still weeks away. I shouldn’t be this much of a mess, even after scenting someone so appealing to my wolf.

It’s times like these that I wish I believed in some kind of higher power. My parents pay lip service to the moon goddess that most shifters worship, but they’re not spiritual at all. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to offer prayers to a goddess who controls the bane of my existence, even if I don’t really think she exists.

I have to make do with a pitch-black bedroom, a cooling pad that keeps my mattress freezing to combat my abnormal body heat, and a scent-diffuser that makes everything smell like blueberry scones. Don’t ask me why, but after testing a multitude of options, it’s the scent that calms me the most.

Far past exhaustion, I collapse into bed, still slightly damp, and silently beg sleep to take me. Half an hour goes by, and my heart is still hammering in my ears, my body on high alert and nowhere close to falling asleep.

With a groan, I grab my phone.

If I can’t sleep, maybe working will help me calm down. Replying to pointless emails and meeting requests is mind-numbing enough, and with my assistant MIA, I’m probably drowning in them.

My stomach lurches.

Fuck, I have to call Samantha tomorrow about the assistant job.

There’s no way I can hire her. I doubt I’ll even be able to hold a regular conversation with her.

I should text her and come up with an excuse why I can’t give her the job, or even an interview. Make something up about my assistant coming back, or the company already finding me a replacement without my approval.

Guilt rises in me, adding to the miasma of emotions flooding my system.

Shane seemed so hopeful about this opportunity for Samantha, and he wouldn’t lie about her being a good fit for the job. When I wasn’t fighting not to huff her scent like a werewolf possessed, I noticed how…off she seemed. She didn’t engage in her usual banter with her siblings, and the whole night it was like her body was there, but her mind wasn’t. Samantha wasn’t her vibrant, boisterous, combative self, and I’m sure that has a lot to do with her losing her job and moving back in with her parents.

I have the power to help her. She’s struggling, and the hollowness in her eyes calls to something that’s far too familiar to me. If I can give her the hand she needs out of it, if I can keep her from becoming a shell of a person like me, then shouldn’t I?

She’s a grown woman, and maybe I’m indulging too much in a savior complex, but I’d hate myself if I let inconvenient lust and my poor life decisions keep me from giving her a chance.

I can’t help remembering how bright her spark was when I’d visit when she was younger. It’s barely there now.