Page 21 of Lone Wolf’s Claim (The Kincaid Werewolves #1)

B rock strode up to what used to be a harmless, trickling stream.

He stopped and shifted Heather to a more comfortable position in his arms. They were on the opposite bank than they needed to be, but it was still dark, the fog heavier than normal.

Without being able to see the other side, he was hesitant to try to cross it even though the current seemed quite a bit calmer here.

He was trying to decide whether to go for it and just try to get across now with an unconscious female in his arms, or to follow it upstream and watch for a less dangerous section when something bounced off of his head to land on her stomach.

“Ah! What the…?”

The words died instantly in his throat. A golden coin lay amongst the folds of her tee shirt, mocking him.

Rage flooded through him and he had to take a moment to control his anger.

Taking deep breaths, he counted to ten, then to twenty, before he felt the slightest bit in control again.

He knew there was no avoiding it. He was going to have to toss the fucking coin.

Gently setting Heather on the ground, he took the coin from her shirt and flipped it into the air. No sense in delaying the inevitable. “Tails,” he gritted through his teeth. Catching it in mid-air, he slammed it onto the back of his other hand.

The prince’s smiling face grinned up at him. He looked particularly happy this time that Brock had lost.

A bubble of laughter rose up in Brock’s throat. He tried to quench it, but before he knew it, he was laughing outright. Belly shaking, head thrown back, loud howls of laughter.

The fucking son of a bitch.

Gradually, his laughter turned to chuckles and the chuckles to nothing more than an occasional grunt. He wondered with no emotion whatsoever what the puppet master had in store for him this time.

Heather moaned in her sleep and he bent down to lift her back into his arms. She settled down again as soon as she felt his warmth around her.

He debated whether he should find a place to hide her or keep her with him, preferably right there in his arms. Without knowing what was coming for him it was hard to know which would be safest for her.

In the end, he decided to keep her with him.

At least that way he knew where she was and he could protect her better.

A few more minutes passed by and nothing had jumped out of the fog at him, so he decided to just start following the river again.

The sound of the flowing water was calming, in spite of his wracked nerves.

Whatever was going to happen would happen, and there was nothing he could do about it.

So instead of standing around waiting for it, he would keep on walking, getting them that much closer to the end of this god-forsaken game.

He’d been walking for about thirty minutes. The shot of adrenaline that had hit him when he saw the coin had worn off and now he was just…numb. Waiting. Placing one foot in front of the other on autopilot, following the river upstream.

Maybe this is the game , he thought. Maybe this is the best game of all for him. Driving me slowly insane waiting for something to happen when nothing is going to happen.

He started laughing again.

Heather’s arm slipped to hang limply at her side and he stopped. Glancing around, he found a fallen log and headed over to it so he could sit down for a moment. He needed a break. Not from carrying her, no. She was like next to nothing in his powerful arms. He just needed a break from the waiting.

He settled her on his lap and lifted her arm and tucked it across her chest, careful of her other arm and her injury.

Pushing her hair off of her shoulder, he adjusted her makeshift sling, securing the knot.

“Now you can tell all your friends that I swept you off your feet and carried you away. Well, technically, the floodwaters swept you off your feet. But I picked you back up again.” He pressed a light kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll always pick you back up again, sunshine.

” Her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t awaken.

Taking a deep breath, he stood, not wanting to linger for too long in any one spot.

He’d just taken his first step when an icy shaft of air caressed the side of his face, like the soft touch of a lover.

His hackles rose immediately and a low growl reverberated deep in his throat.

He waited, but nothing else happened. Thinking it must’ve been only his imagination, he lifted his foot to set off again and almost fell on top of Heather when he was physically pushed by someone behind him.

Whipping around, he bared his teeth and prepared to fight whoever or whatever was there, but there was nothing but pine trees and mist. A cold chill swept over him.

“Please tell me there are no ghosts here,” he pleaded. “No ghosts. I do not DO ghosts. I’ll fight any monster you can think up with a fucking smile on my face, but I can’t…I can’t do ghosts.”

“And where the hell is the fucking sun?!” he shouted to the sky. It was still dark, and appeared to be getting darker out rather than lighter, as it should definitely be by now. Another set of icy fingers ghosted down his bare arm; startling him so much he almost dropped his precious cargo.

This time it just pissed him off. “Fine. You want to touch me? Push me? Try to freak me out? Go ahead. You won’t stop me.

” Tucking Heather up close to him, he marched with a determined stride back to the river and continued to follow it.

He kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, only glancing up once in a while to search for a section of the river that would be easy to cross.

He’d gone about three hundred feet when he saw some gentle rapids. Rapids meant rocks. And rocks meant the water wasn’t as deep there. And that meant he’d be able to get across.

A smile broke out across his face and he sped up his pace. Other than a ghostly caress here and there, the spooks seemed to be pretty harmless, if unnerving and completely unconcerned about what was appropriate and what wasn’t.

He’d gotten less than a few steps away from the crossing when suddenly, without warning, he was whooshed all the way back to the fallen log.

Grinding his jaw, he set out again, faster this time. But again, as soon as he reached the shallow part of the river he was pushed back.

Brock’s heart began to pound. He had to get to that crossing. Had to get back across the stream. He wanted to go home. He wanted to take Heather and go home.

Once again, he was pushed back as soon as he reached it.

Frustration and something akin to fear built up inside of him and he began to run outright.

Ghostly whispers urged him on, making the hair rise on the back of his neck.

He reached the crossing, and this time, he could practically feel the entities passing through him as they worked together to shove him back.

“Come on, ye bastards!” he screamed. Running full out, fighting the change so he could hold on to Heather, he pumped his legs as fast as they could go. His heart pounded and sweat trickled down his back.

Almost there. Almost there.

He was more than halfway there and this time, he would make it through them. He’d get through and get across the stream. If he could just get across the stream, everything would be okay.

A deep, hellish voice echoed through the trees, laughing at him. Laughing at his fear. Brock’s heart stopped and his blood turned to ice in his veins. Cold, hard fear paralyzed him. He couldn’t even scream…

Bolting upright from the ground he was lying on next to Heather, Brock startled awake with a terrified scream caught in his throat.

His heart was pounding a mile a minute, his skin was rippling in anticipation of changing and a cold sweat covered him in spite of the nip in the air.

The fire was almost burned out, and there was a pile of dry clothes folded next to it.

Night was receding as a new day lightened the sky.

A dream…it was just a bad dream.

At least that’s what he would tell himself.