Rabid (Kingdom of Wolves #6) - Ivy Asher Page 0,57
fight. I worry that if our switch keeps getting flipped, this rabid piece of us will only get worse. Which is why I have to figure out how to control it, and why I need to learn her better so that we’re on the same page.
The moment our shift is complete, my wolf yawns and yips, waking up as she takes in a thousand scents mixed with the crisp morning air. For a moment, she just walks around, stopping every few seconds to smell something, letting herself enjoy this like it’s a meandering Sunday stroll. But soon, she starts walking determinedly, paws never straying from the direction she’s set her sights on. I sure hope it’s a stream where I can shift and clean up.
I expect to feel tension, all senses on high alert as we pad through this unfamiliar forest that reeks of unfamiliar wolves. Anxiety hammers through me as we go, but my wolf doesn’t seem to feel any of that. She’s calm and confident as she picks her way through the bracken and underbrush. Her gait is determined, and she moves as though there’s something about this place that she knows and I don’t.
The more she walks, the more relaxed I start to feel. Her certitude is catching, and I let go of the worry nipping at my neck. I’m able to take a breather. And this forest, even though it’s the territory of some fucked up shifters, it’s almost...peaceful. Serene. I always loved walking with my dad through our woods, but here, everything is so much rawer. Like no part has been touched by humans. It’s just the sunlight filtering through the trees and a refreshing breeze that seems to ground us both.
My wolf picks up her nose, her steps quickening, and I perk up at her enthusiasm. Please be a river… Except when my wolf walks us out of the clearing, it’s definitely not a river. It’s the damn Ruin Falls pack houses.
Motherfu—
It’s strange to glare inside her body, but I manage it. “This is not water or food! You weren’t supposed to take us to their damn homestead!”
My wolf chuffs at me but is otherwise completely shameless. She stops right beside the last tree, like she wants to creep on the houses first, and together, we both take stock.
She notes the collection of wolf scents soaked into the air. I note the collection of hand-built cabins seeded around, every rough-paneled face matching the bark of the surrounding trees. These ones aren’t dilapidated like the first cabin I saw, but they’re still raw and boasting of imperfections.
She takes in the scuff marks on the ground, while I take in the outdoor sitting area smack in the middle of the clearing. She sees the meat dripping over a spit; I see the carefully fed fires speckled around the open space.
With a snap of her teeth, she jerks her attention to the largest house, and just behind it, I see a huge glittering lake that’s fed from the mountains just beyond. My wolf swings her head back and forth between that and the cooking food, chest puffing with a rush of arrogance as she seems to say, “Food. Water. Shelter. Happy, bitch?”
I open my mouth to argue with her, but the scent of that cooking meat floods her senses, which floods mine, and then we’re both salivating. I try to tell her that we can’t get to their food without someone spotting us. I don’t care if she doesn’t currently see anyone around. Someone is feeding those fires, and a lot of someones are cooking that meat, based on the quantities of it.
All these smells, all these threats permeating the air should alarm her. We’re the lone wolf surrounded by an unknown pack. There’s nothing about this situation that should have my wolf feeling as calm and entitled as she’s feeling. I study her lack of reaction to the threat all around us and worry that the anger and fight isn’t the only thing about us that’s broken. Maybe all her natural instincts have been shattered beyond repair with what was done to us?
Let’s just double back, I say inside our shared minds. Find a private lake, and then you can hunt, and we—
My wolf trots out into the clearing.
Trots. Out.
Fear percusses through me like thunder rumbling through a storm that’s dangerously too close. Alarm bells clang in my head, and trouble crawls up my back and perches heavily on my shoulders.