Raised by Wolves(30)

Any one of them—save perhaps for the twins—could have killed me in a heartbeat. They could have broken my bones, snapped my neck, opened my jugular. They could have eaten me, destroyed me, torn apart my remains.

But they didn’t. And the call of my connection to them was so strong that I didn’t even think about the other wolves I’d seen in my lifetime: men Shifting into monsters, jaws snapping at human throats.

Instead, I thought of the wind in my face and the smell and taste of the forest, the feel of it under my brothers’ paws.

The pack was safe.

The pack was together.

The pack was mine.





CHAPTER NINE


THE NEXT DAY, I WOKE UP AN HOUR BEFORE MY alarm went off with a cramp in my calf, leaves in my hair, and a strange substance that I desperately hoped was dirt under my fingernails. It took me a moment to remember, and then the night before came back to me like a dream. I’d felt powerful. Invincible. Safe.

And totally and completely unlike myself.

It was scary how easy it was to get lost to the pack-mentality. How right it felt to belong, despite the fact that belonging wasn’t something I’d ever needed before. At school, I didn’t really mind the way the other girls turned up their noses at me. I’d never really bothered much more with the fact that most of the pack tended to view me as Other, too. Unless they sensed an outside threat, I was Callum’s pet and Devon’s friend, not one of them, and that was fine.

But last night, I’d been something different. And even now, lying in my bed in Ali’s house, I could feel them—each and every member of the pack: Devon curled at the bottom of his bed; Marcus prowling through his house with clenched fists and fist-shaped holes in his walls; Katie and Alex still asleep. Casey was …

Casey was in bed with Ali. And that was where I drew the line. Because, eww.

This whole pack-bond thing was kind of out of control. Especially if I followed the logic of my current situation to completion, because that told me that as much as I was in their heads, they were in mine.

Stupid werewolves.

Still in bed, Bryn?

Callum’s voice was in my head, not surprising given the fact that he’d practically been there before I’d opened up to the others.

Are you reading my mind? I asked him point-blank, ignoring his question and the fact that I was probably due to start training any minute.

Your thoughts are your own, m’dear. Your emotions, physical movements, location, and instincts are another matter.

My instinct was to tell him that he blew. Trusting that he’d pick up on that little psychic tidbit, I rolled out of bed and stumbled to my closet, unsteady and wobbly on my feet. I felt like I’d run a marathon. Through a vat of cement. With weights on my legs.

The night before, I’d been too drunk on power to listen to any objections my body might have had about the pace I’d kept. Today, however, each and every complaint was registering loud and clear.

We’ll start with a morning run, I think. You’ve a bit of time before the school day starts.



I was sure that it wasn’t just my imagination. There was some self-satisfied amusement in Callum’s mind-voice. Didn’t he realize it was Monday morning and that being up at this hour was almost certainly a crime against God and man? I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to project my thoughts back to him in words—for all I knew, that might be an alpha-only skill, but I thought I’d give it a try.

Sadist.

His response came to me in colors and feelings, rather than words, but I got the message clear enough. He was laughing at me. Chuckling, in a fond kind of way.

I pushed at him—not to close off the bond but to shove him out of my head, or as far to the corners of it as he would go.

He stayed for a moment, his presence taking over so much of my mind that I couldn’t move. After making his point, he retreated.

Stupid werewolves and their stupid dominance maneuvers. It was bad enough dealing with them every day when it came to external conflict. The last thing I needed was people marking territory inside my head.

Without even thinking about it, I sent Callum an image of a dog hiking his leg at a fire hydrant. And then one of a rebel flag from the Revolutionary War.

Callum didn’t respond in my head, but I knew he’d gotten the message, because he met me at the front door, and the first thing he said, with a single arch of his eyebrow, was, “Don’t tread on you?”

“More like ‘don’t metaphorically pee on my brainwaves,’ but it’s the same sentiment, really.”

“Vulgarity does not become you, Bryn.”

“Are you going to lecture, or are we going to run?”

He sighed, and I didn’t need a bond with the pack to see that he was thinking that I had always, always been a difficult child. And then, just in case that point wasn’t clear, he verbalized it. “You have always, always been a difficult child.”