Page 31

31

Naomi

“ G O!”

The starting horn blares so deep, the noise vibrates through the ground beneath my feet. In an instant, the competitors scatter, disappearing silently into the thick woods like the perfect predators that they are, each choosing their own path through the challenge ahead.

Dean's territory is beautiful but wild, the perfect hunting ground for wolves who know how to use the terrain to their advantage.

I hesitate for only a second, glancing at Wyatt. His face is a mask of determination, jaw clenched against what must be excruciating pain. He shouldn't be here. He should be with a healer, fighting the poison still clearly ravaging his system.

Even in the soft light, I can see how pale he is beneath his tan, the unnatural sheen of sweat on his skin. His breathing is controlled but laboured, each inhale carefully measured as he fights to hide his suffering.

But I know arguing is pointless. His mind is made up. And frankly, I’m glad he’s here. The idea of Brad attempting to mark me against my will is terrifying.

"Stay with me," he says, voice rough but steady, as he takes off toward the treeline.

I follow, matching his pace, which is surprisingly quick given his condition. I can’t understand how he’s even on two feet. I’ve heard stories of people being unconscious for days after ingesting wolfsbane, if they recover at all. Hopefully, he wasn’t exposed to very much, and that’s why he seems to be recovering quickly.

But as we enter the cover of the forest, I notice the slight hitch in his stride, a limp that would be invisible to anyone who wasn't watching for it.

"You're hurt," I say, keeping my voice low as we weave between the ancient pines. “And bleeding.”

I spotted cuts on his hands and cheek, but nothing too deep. Especially not for a shifter whose accelerated healing will take care of those quickly.

Small lacerations cross his knuckles and a shallow cut traces his cheekbone, evidence of his struggle after being attacked. But those aren't what worry me. It's the stiffness in his movements, the way he favors his right side, and the unmistakable metallic scent of fresh blood mingling with the acrid smell of wolfsbane.

I take in more of his scent and look beyond the horrible stench of the medicine Jax has given him. It’s more than a little blood I can detect.

“How bad is it?”

Wyatt doesn't slow. "I'm fine."

My big, stubborn brute of a mate pushes on, adjusting his stride to hide the limp. His jaw is set, eyes focused straight ahead, the very picture of determination despite his condition. I've never met anyone with such sheer force of will.

"You weren't limping last night after the fight." When we ran together as wolves, his movements were fluid and powerful, with no sign of injury.

"It's nothing.”

But it's not nothing. It's fresh, which means it’s another injury that happened after we parted at dawn. He stops and turns to face me, his hand going to his chest, where he obviously feels my rising concern.

His eyes, those deep, expressive eyes, hold mine steadily, but I can see the pain he's trying to hide, the fever burning just beneath the surface.

Striding purposefully toward me where I’ve stopped in my tracks, he cups my face in both hands and leans down to give me a devastating kiss. Despite knowing I shouldn’t, that we’re wasting valuable seconds, I lean into him and wrap my fingers up into his shirt, damp with sweat, allowing myself to get lost in him.

He’s here. We’re together. Everything’s going to be okay.

"I love that you're worried about me," he murmurs, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "But save your concern for the alphas on our trail. I've survived worse than this."

The lie is so obvious, it almost makes me smile. He's protecting me from the truth, that he's running through the forest with wolfsbane still in his system, fighting pain with every step. But I let him have this moment of bravado, this attempt to ease my fears. There’s no point in arguing now when we’re already out on the course.

When he leans back, I feel light-headed and more than a little aroused. He’s my mate. He’s all I want, and we’ve been denying our basest desires since we met. Pressing against his hard body, I take his lips again, sliding my hand into his messy hair and breathing him in deep.

Wyatt breaks away again, panting, his wolf shining in his eyes. He’s as affected as I am. “We need to keep going.”

Wyatt doesn’t move. Nor do I.

“Mark me,” I murmur.

I don’t want to race. I want to pull him deeper into the trees and let him claim me. Fuck me. Right here. Then Brad’s plan is ruined.

The words escape before I can stop them, but I don't regret them. The thought of Brad hunting me through these woods, trying to force a mating mark on me, makes my skin crawl. With Wyatt's mark on my neck, I'd be protected and off-limits to any other wolf by the most sacred law of our kind.

Unless he kills Wyatt.

“Fuck, Naomi. I want to. More than anything, I want to. But not like this. You’re not tying yourself to me forever because that asshole is forcing your hand.”

About to argue, I go to open my mouth, but Wyatt presses his lips to mine briefly, sweetly, before silencing me with a definitive “NO.”

His hands roam my body as he buries his face in my neck, teasing my marking spot and sending my libido sky high.

His voice drops to a growl, rough and primal, his breath hot against my ear. "When I get my hands on you, I want to take my time. I've dreamed of being with you every night since we met, how you'll feel beneath me, around me, the sounds you'll make when I'm deep inside you."

His words send heat flooding through me, my body responding instinctively to his promise. My wolf whines, pressing against my skin, desperate for the mating that feels so inevitable yet remains just out of reach.

"You deserve better than a rushed mating in the middle of a hunt," he continues, pressing his forehead to mine. "Both of us do."

Holy shit.

I’ve been craving his touch, imagining him sinking his teeth into my neck, but now, I want everything he just described, but without the pressure of a pack of alphas breathing down our backs. Still, I can’t help the whimper that passes through my lips when he takes my hand and tugs me along behind him.

“It’ll be worth it, Naomi. I promise.”

As I stare at his thick thighs and broad, muscular back, stretching his black T-shirt to its limit, I don’t doubt that.

I can wait. Just about.

We push deeper into the woods, moving at breakneck speed. Wyatt may be injured, but his legs are longer than mine, and despite everything, he's setting a punishing pace. The undergrowth thickens, branches catching at our clothes, and roots threatening to trip us with every step.

The forest grows denser as we move away from the edge; the trees standing closer together, their massive trunks creating hidden pathways. Sunlight barely penetrates here, casting everything in a green-tinted twilight. The air is cooler, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, the sounds of our footfalls muffled by the thick carpet of needles beneath our feet.

Wyatt navigates the terrain with remarkable confidence, choosing paths I wouldn't even have noticed, leading us through openings in the undergrowth that seem to appear just as we reach them.

"We need to shift," Wyatt says as we reach a small clearing, now safely out of sight from the other competitors, who’ve all spread out and veered off in different directions.

He doesn't wait for my agreement, already stripping off his trousers with efficient movements.

His body is a work of art. It’s all hard planes and sculpted muscles earned through years of hard labor rather than vanity. Scars map his skin, telling of a tough life outside a pack. Despite the poison weakening him, there's nothing diminished about his physical presence.

I try not to stare as he slips his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, tented by a terrifyingly impressive erection. He raises an eyebrow, waiting to see if I’ll continue to watch.

Blushing, I force myself to turn away, heart pounding as I remove my own clothes with trembling fingers. This isn't the time or place for ogling your mate, not with alphas hunting us through the forest.

By the time I turn back, Wyatt is already shifting. Rough and nothing like the fluid transition I witnessed the night we spent together. His muscles spasm and contract, bones cracking audibly as they reshape themselves against the poison's resistance. A white bandage, stained bright red with blood, falls to the ground as his form changes. That’s more than just a cut…

Within moments, his massive dark wolf stands before me, eyes glowing with fierce determination, and I’m easily distracted by the vision.

“Hello handsome.” I croon, and he nuzzles into me, encouraging me to join him.

My wolf surges forward eagerly, embracing the change with a joy that contrasts sharply with my human anxieties. My body reshapes itself, bones lengthening, muscles reforming, senses sharpening beyond human limits. In seconds, I stand on four paws.

Next to Wyatt's massive black form, my massive wolf is still smaller, but we complement each other perfectly, like we were designed as a matched pair.

He brushes against me, a moment of contact that sends warmth through our bond. Then he's off, powerful paws eating up the ground as he leads us deeper into the woods.

We race through the forest, two shadows moving in perfect synchronization. Despite his injury, Wyatt's wolf moves with breathtaking grace, his massive body somehow finding paths where none seem to exist. He weaves between trees, ducking under low branches, leaping over fallen logs with an economy of movement that speaks of years spent perfecting these skills.

Together, we slip through the heart of Dean's territory like ghosts, barely disturbing a leaf. The exhilaration of running with my mate, of moving as one through the wilderness, sends joy coursing through me despite the danger at our heels.

He’s probably spent more time in wolf form this year alone than most shifters do in their entire lives.

After several minutes, Wyatt suddenly stops, ears pricked forward, listening. Then he doubles back, retracing our steps for about twenty yards before veering sharply east, away from our original path. I follow without question, trusting his instincts, even as nerves ripple through me.

Suddenly, Wyatt freezes, his entire body going still. His ears swivel, catching sounds too faint for even my enhanced hearing to detect. His nostrils flare, testing the air, and something in his posture changes, a new tension, a heightened alertness that telegraphs danger more clearly than any words could.

Without warning, he spins around, backtracking our path with quick, deliberate movements before veering sharply east. I follow his lead without hesitation, my wolf instinctively deferring to his greater experience of evasion tactics.

He leads us through a shallow stream, our paws leaving no tracks in the rocky bed. We follow the water for a while before exiting at a cluster of large stones, careful to leave no prints on the bank. Then Wyatt circles back once more, creating an intricate web of overlapping scents and false trails that would confuse even the most skilled tracker.

The stream is cold, the water clear enough to see the bottom. We move upstream against the current, our paws finding secure footing on the uneven riverbed. The rushing water washes away our scent, erasing our trail as effectively as if we'd vanished. All but the smell of blood and wolfsbane that clings to Wyatt.

After several hundred yards, he leads us out of the water onto a rocky outcrop where our paws won't leave deep prints. Then he executes an elaborate series of backtracking movements, creating false trails that lead nowhere, doubling back on our own scent, and circling trees in ways that would confuse even the most experienced tracker.

It's impressive, watching him work. Each movement is deliberate. Strategic. He's not just running as I would have, he's orchestrating a complex evasion, using every trick he's learned during his years as an outcast. My respect for him deepens with each clever maneuver, even if I hate that he’s had to learn how to do this.

But I can also see the toll it's taking. His movements, while still precise, are growing heavier. His breathing is too rapid, too shallow. The poison is draining him, and all this exertion is speeding up its effects.

Despite his skills, I can see how the wolfsbane is affecting him. His movements, while still precise, lack their usual fluidity. His breathing comes faster, more labored, and there's a subtle drag to his hind leg that wasn't there before. The wound on his back has begun to seep, dark droplets staining his midnight fur.

My wolf whines with concern, wanting to stop, to tend to her mate. But Wyatt's golden eyes remain focused, determined. Even poisoned and hunted, there's an unwavering strength to him that makes my heart swell with pride and something deeper: a fierce, protective love that grows stronger with each moment we spend together.

I’m so proud that he’s mine.

As if reading my thoughts, Wyatt pauses, turning to meet my gaze. His wolf's eyes are bright with fever, but the intelligence in them is undimmed. He nudges me forward, urging me to take the lead.

I hesitate, reluctant to leave him behind.

The second horn sounds, and I stop dead in my tracks, panic gripping me.

Its deep bellow echoes through the forest, bouncing off trees and rocks until it seems to come from everywhere at once. Birds explode from the canopy, their wings beating frantically as they flee from the disturbance. Small animals freeze, then scurry for cover.

The alphas have been released. Brad is on his way.

The hunt has truly begun.