Page 11 of Lone Wolf’s Claim (The Kincaid Werewolves #1)

Brock fell to all fours, twisting out of the way just in time. The thing's momentum kept it going and it fell toward the other one, unable to stop itself. It pulled its arms back to avoid its friend, but not quick enough.

The second creature shrieked in pain as its chest was flayed wide open by the other's claws. More black liquid gushed from the new wounds, joining the river that was running from its neck. It fell down onto all fours, its head bouncing loosely on its neck, then it toppled over onto its side.

And then there was one.

Without giving it time to react, Brock flew toward it and caught one of its front legs in his powerful jaws as he knocked it off balance.

It toppled over backwards, and he landed on top of it, his weight again spearing the thing's spines into the ground.

It shrieked and hissed in frustration, its teeth snapping within inches of Brock's head.

Those long canines came perilously close before he jerked his head back, still holding its arm in his jaws.

It swung its other arm at him, but he blocked it and slammed it into the ground with his front paw.

Brock's muscles strained as he adjusted his bite closer to its hand, and his back feet dug into the dirt as he pressed forward with everything he had. The creature struggled against him, its yellow eyes rolling back in its head as it fought against Brock's hold.

Heather stood silent and unmoving as she watched their battle of wills, afraid of distracting Brock and causing him to lose his grip.

A deep growl rose from Brock's chest and he jerked forward with a surge of strength. At the same time, the creature wiggled its other arm out and raised it to strike at Brock's neck, claws dripping that fatal fluid.

A flash of fear and anger ripped through Heather.

Without realizing she had moved at all, she was back across the stream with a breath of the air.

It had taken her less than a heartbeat. Not stopping to think about it, she raised her right hand toward the thing.

Blue-white bolts of heat left her fingers, hitting the creature directly in the ribcage right where its heart should be.

The body jerked, the arm that had been poised over the werewolf flung back onto the ground as the volts of electricity shot through its body.

Eyes glowing white from the kick of power traveling within his prey, Brock surged forward once more, pushing its arm in toward itself and slicing the thing open with its own claws.

Releasing the arm, he jumped back away from it. His sides heaved and his eyes struggled to stay open as he recovered from the shock he’d just received, watching the raptor carefully for any signs of life.

But he needn't have bothered. Whether from Heather's lightening bolt or the poison claws, or both, the thing was dead.

Brock staggered over to it and nudged it with his nose, then nipped at its leg.

It didn't move. Backing away, he gave her a mistrustful look (that honestly she took offense at being that she’d just saved his mangy life) and collapsed onto his haunches.

She could see his muscles quivering with exhaustion from where she stood.

Heather heard a loud snap echo around them, like a large branch breaking in two.

Brock threw his head back and howled as his spine twisted and his upper torso jerked forward and back.

The howl turned into a human roar of pain as she heard more cracks and pops, his body bending in angles that should not be possible, his limbs breaking and reforming.

She covered her ears from the sounds as his snout and teeth retracted and his skin rippled over his tearing muscles, changing…

reforming, until he was once again a human male.

Naked, his shoulder bleeding from the gaping wound inflicted on it during the fight, he collapsed onto his side in the dirt.

Heather picked her way carefully back over to the stream where she’d dropped his things earlier.

It wouldn’t help anything if she fell and bashed her head open on one of these rocks.

Picking up his clothes and bringing them back to where he lay, she covered his bare ass (a bit reluctantly) with his shirt before she made her way around to the front of him.

He watched her as she kneeled down in front of him, his blue eyes wary and dark with exhaustion. His shoulder was bloody and dirty, and already beginning to heal. She needed to get it clean. As she went to stand up again, his hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist with surprising strength.

"What th' fook was that?" he rasped.

She cocked an eyebrow at the new accent, but decided not to argue the point that now was hardly the time to try to distract her with a sexy, Scottish brogue.

Besides, she kinda liked it. "What was what?

" she asked innocently. Then she shushed him when he opened his mouth to clarify the question.

"We need to get your shoulder taken care of.

Stay here." Before he could ask anything else, she got up and went foraging through the undergrowth around the trees.

Finding what she was looking for, she plucked off some leaves and took them over to him.

He managed to sit up by himself with hardly a grunt of pain when she returned. The shirt she'd kinda sorta covered him with slid down his hard abs to pool around his lean hips, and Heather had to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek to stay focused on what she was doing.

She kneeled down next to him and pulled his hair away from the sticky wound. Normally she wasn’t a fan of long hair on guys, but on him, it worked. A little too well. Maybe it was because the rest of him was so masculine.

Wiping away the dirt as best as she could, she packed his wound with the leaves. He gritted his teeth when she pushed them in there, but otherwise showed no sign of the discomfort he was in.

“What is that?” he hissed out when she hit a particularly tender spot.

She glanced up at him, but he was looking off into the distance. “Um, I think it’s called Lamb’s Ear?”

He tensed as she pressed her hand over the leaves, applying pressure. “You think that’s what it is? What if yer sockin’ me full of poison sumac or something?”

“It’s not poison sumac,” she said distractedly. “My mom used to use this on me all the time as a kid. Mostly for smaller scrapes and cuts. I just don’t recall the name.”

He grunted in response, but said nothing else.

She, on the other hand, was trying really, really hard to keep her eyes on his shoulder. But they kept wandering down that sculpted torso of his of their own accord. Luckily, he didn't seem to be paying attention, distracted as he was by her pressing on his injury.

"I don't see any signs of poisoning," she muttered more to herself than to him.

He glanced back at the creature that had taken the chunk out of him. "I don't think their teeth were venomous. Just their claws."

After a long moment, she said, "So. That shape shifting stuff. It doesn't look fun."

He'd closed his eyes, but opened them again at her words, finally looking at her as he admitted, "It's not."

Careful to keep her face neutral, she nodded, not sure what else to say.

"Here, hold these.” She replaced her hand with his over the leaves.

“Be right back." Getting up, she went to the water to wet a piece of her shirt so she could wipe off the remaining blood.

"Why not just stay in one shape or the other then? " she asked when she returned.

"Well, for one, I don't always have a choice."

She lifted an eyebrow in question and continued wiping off his shoulder and arm with one hand while the other took over the compression.

He winced when she pressed a little too hard, and reaching up, pushed her hands away. "That's good enough. Thank you."

“But you need to keep pressure on…”

“Yeah, I got it.”

She tried not to feel hurt by his brusque tone. Males were always grumpy when they weren’t feeling good. "You gonna be ok?"

"It'll be fine by tomorrow."

She got to her feet and backed off, turning around as he started to get up. His pants cracked behind her as he tried to shake the mud off of them.

"Sorry about the muck on your clothes."

He only grunted in answer and she scowled at the fog. He didn’t need to be like that. It's not like she'd dropped them on purpose.

"All right, let's go."

Turning around, she found that he'd gotten his muddy pants and boots on and had wadded up his dirty shirt and was holding it as a compress on his shoulder.

“That shirt is dirty,” she scolded.

“Don’t worry, the leaves are still there. Even though they’re probably infecting me more than the dirt would have.”

He walked away without looking at her again, heading upstream.

Males could be so moody.