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My arms.
My legs.
My muscles contract, and my vision starts to fade out. I keel over sideways and can’t even catch my fall.
With my face pressed to the dirt and the dense, earthy smell of the f
orest floor in my nostrils, I know nothing else.
I open my eyes to a white ceiling bisected by wood beams the color of honey.
I’m lying on a soft mattress, and sunshine struggles to filter through the gauzy curtains covering the tiny window beside the bed. If I didn’t know any better, I would think I was back home in my parents’ little cabin, where I woke up beneath the same type of ceiling for twenty-four years. The paint between the beams is a bit brighter than the off-white cream back home, but the resemblance is startling.
Shock sends a zing of adrenaline through me as I remember collapsing in the woods. I sit up so quickly my head spins, but something has a hold of me. Has hold of both my hands, actually. Craning my neck around, I find that my wrists have been tied to the bed frame, leaving my arms in a very uncomfortable position.
Son of a bitch.
I flop back onto the pillows to ease the pressure on my joints and sigh, blowing a lock of my dark hair off my face.
Just my luck. I get hit by a painful bout of food poisoning or some shit, pass out in the woods, and then get picked up by Oscura’s resident serial killer.
Speaking of pain… I slow my breathing and focus on my body. The pain before I passed out was debilitating, but now, I feel nothing at all. The burn from the shadow beast on my wrist chafes a little beneath the rope restraining me, but the strange muscle contractions and tightening paralysis have stopped.
Okay, I think. That’s a good thing. That means I can try to break free and get the hell out of here before the serial killer gets back.
Of course, an unarmed serial killer would be a cakewalk for a wolf shifter. That’s not really my worry. But if a Ted Bundy wannabe flounces in here with an axe, I might be in trouble. Especially if I’m still restrained.
On my back, it’s easier to incline my head and look up at the ropes without yanking my joints out of place to do it. My hands dangle from purple-patterned mountain climbing rope held in place by intricate knots. I’ve done some mountain climbing in my time—hard not to when you grow up in the mountains—but I don’t recognize this knot.
Fuck.
I start working on the ropes, twisting my wrists and tucking my thumb in an effort to slide my hands free. Tugging on the ropes just seems to pull the knot tighter, and moving up to take the pressure off doesn’t release anything.
Wannabe Ted Bundy really knows his knots.
Shifting is a possibility, of course, but my wolf legs aren’t really any smaller than my normal wrists. Shifters aren’t wolf-sized. Finding myself in wolf form splayed out like this doesn’t sound appealing, and then when it fails and I have to shift back, it’s even less appealing to imagine myself naked and splayed across a bed with a serial killer roaming.
Something prickles across my skin, then a strong scent wafts over me.
Warm. Spicy.
“You won’t break free.”
I jerk at the voice. My heart picks up a nervous rhythm, and I whip my head around to face the doorway.
Blondie leans against the door frame, looking for all the world like he’s bored out of his mind. He’s in khaki cargo pants and a black Henley that looks stunning next to his golden skin and insanely blue eyes. I should be terrified of him, knowing what I know about how dangerous he is, but instead, I’m just irritated he found me first.
It’s easier to focus on the anger than on the way my wolf howls hungrily inside me.
“You’re Ted Bundy?” I grit out.
Blondie stares at me, and even though his expression doesn’t change, I’m fairly certain he thinks I’ve lost my mind.
It definitely feels like I have.
I jerk harder against my restraints, like that’s going to miraculously free me. “You wanna untie me? Or no?”
He ignores my question. “What happened?”
