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His breath caught. The voice was high-pitched. Not Lukka. “Sonia?”
“You need to leave,” she said in a rush. “Leave New Walsh. Now. Leave the state if you have to—”
“What’s going on?” He’d rarely heard her this unnerved. Her voice shook, and he growled at the thought of what might have happened to have her so spooked. “Tell me.”
Static interspersed her words. “Lukka isn’t… I think he knows what you intend, and he won’t ever let you face him to do so. If he sees you even attempt to approach the territory, he plans to head you off and have you killed.”
Bill formed a fist and slammed it onto the nearest counter. “Predictable.” He’d feared as much, though he’d hoped that even Lukka would respect the old laws enough to play fair, at least in this instance. No such luck.
But if Lukka was on the warpath, who knew what he might do to anyone he perceived as an enemy. “Sonia, get somewhere safe—”
“I’ll be fine. He can’t risk hurting me outright. Please, Bill. Just go.”
She hung up. Hissing, Bill tried to call her back to no response. He wound up pacing in frustration, torn between his duty to Loren—and the others—and the need to rush to his packmate’s aid. In the end, he decided on a grim compromise that ironically would kill multiple birds with one stone.
No more stalling.
He would return to Black Mountain.
Whether he liked it or not.
21
Loren groaned as a loud thud shattered the quiet, snapping her awake. Her head throbbed, and every thought felt like jagged glass slicing through her skull. There wasn’t time to wallow in the agony, though.
Something was off. Her heart started racing before she could pinpoint the reason why. Tension laced the air. She could practically taste it—a scent like pine, but bitter. Colder. Winter. Alarm displaced her discomfort, and she stirred, fighting to make sense of her surroundings.
She was on a bed. In McGoven’s room? Before she could be sure, another sound reached her ears, providing more clarity.
“…my truck isn’t large enough. …need to use… Thank you, Naomi…” The voice came muffled from below. McGoven definitely, followed by someone with a higher cadence. Micha?
“This is so weird. All the stealth and stuff. I feel like we’re going on a mission or something—”
“Wearen’t doing a damn thing,” McGoven warned. His voice radiated quiet anger she suspected had been simmering within him since the two men from the rival pack visited. Only now it had seeped into the very atmosphere, tinging the air with that wintery chill. Whatever unease infected her—he was the source of it. “You pack up, stay close and stay out of trouble. That is all. Wait—”
Suddenly the voices went silent, and a pair of steady, quiet thumps echoed throughout the house, advancing in her direction. Footsteps.
Her cheeks flamed as she looked down, taking stock of her shivering frame crouched over the rumpled blankets. Throbbing headache aside, she was mostly naked apart from an oversized T-shirt she couldn’t remember putting on. There wasn’t even time to cover herself with the sheet. Not even a second later, a tall figure appeared in the doorway, and she felt her entire body resonate with relief instead of shame.
He wasn’t…hiding this time. He faced her out in the open without the aid of nightfall or shadows to obscure his expression. The contrast was startling. Pale daylight bathed him in a soft, gray glow. It was morning—very early. Dawn? She must have slept right through the night, but judging from how her body ached, she could still use a few more hours. Every nerve and bit of muscle felt used and abused.
His nearness, however, soothed most of the uneasiness. She found herself shifting toward the end of the mattress, aching to get closer. It was all coming back to her now. What he’d done to help her remember.
His kiss. His touch…
She drew her knees together and swallowed at the memories. Looking at his face, however, made her blood run cold. He stood back, his arms crossed—the first sign that something was weighing on his mind. The second clue was that he was fully dressed for once, wearing a red and black plaid shirt that had to be the most colorful item she’d seen him in. A pair of dark jeans enhanced the look, and he resembled a lumberjack rather than an officer.
Or a lycan, for that matter.
Ironically, the hard gleam in his eye was reminiscent of a soldier ready to go to war more than anything else.
“Something’s wrong,” she croaked. “Tell me.”
“How did you sleep?” he asked, skirting the question.
Loren tensed. She knew that tone—and that the harmless inquiry was merely to preface what he really wanted to say. Something unspoken loomed between them, suffocating her with every passing second.
“Fine. Now tell me what’s going on.” She drew her knees up to her chin and reached for the sheet, draping it over her front.
