Hunted (Pack of Dawn and Destiny, #1)(58)

Greyson snorted as he pushed off the car and wandered up to the driver’s side. “Yeah, because that’s possible.”

I headed for the path that led into the woods and would take me back to my house. “A mate bond is absolutely wasted on you.”

“I agree,” Greyson called. His voice was too serious to be his usual snark, so I turned around in surprise, but he was already in the car, his forehead slightly furrowed as he started it up.

Don’t get involved. He might have my sympathy, but he’s a wolf—and an Alpha. He can take care of his own issues.

I nodded at the wisdom in my own advice and headed for the trees, waiting until I reached the forest before stopping to take off my heels so I could walk barefoot the rest of the way.

Wolves are wolves. I’m just a hunter. I may live with them, but I’m not Pack. Greyson isn’t my Alpha.

Somehow the thought made my heart twist a little. Not that I cared about Greyson—he could go romance some she-wolf. But that I wasn’t really Pack—and I had a sneaking suspicion, after seeing the Fletching hunters, that I wasn’t really a hunter either.

I’m stuck halfway between the two. That’s a nonexistent place to be.

I’d have to do something different, eventually. Or I was going to be alone, not quite fitting in, for the rest of my life.





*



Four nights later, I played out the downside of being a crazy cat lady—the litter box.

“You two are disgusting.” I tested to make sure my face mask and goggles were secure—I’d once made the mistake of cleaning their litter box and not covering my face, and Prince kicked a clump of dirty kitty litter at my face. I had never before gagged so much or used that much face soap in a single day.

Princess sat on the tile floor next to me and peered into the litter box while Prince stared at me.

“Don’t give me that look.” I scooped dirty litter from the box and dumped it into a trash bag. “I just cleaned this yesterday, and you two pigged it up already—hey, what are you doing?”

Princess ignored me as she crawled into the litter box.

“Get out,” I said. “If you have to go that badly, go outside.”

She waited until I cleared one end of the box, then immediately started digging a spot.

“Stop that—out, get out!” I dropped the poop scoop and picked her up, carrying her through the house and out to the front porch. “Go out here if you must go while I’m cleaning!”

I shut the door, then turned around to find Prince doing the same thing.

I repeated the exercise of kicking his fat, fluffy gray butt outside as well, then finished cleaning the litter box—aware of the two sets of judge-y eyes that drilled into my back as Prince and Princess smashed their faces against the glass of one of the front windows.

I tied off the dirty trash bag and stripped off my gloves. “I’ll be right back. I mean it!” I waltzed out to the garage—which just held my scooter, and all the tools Papa Santos had left behind, as well as my trash can and recycling.

I tossed the bag of dirty kitty litter in the trash, then pushed the button to open the garage door before I thoroughly washed my hands in the garage sink.

“Prince, Princess. Come on back here,” I called out into the foggy night. “I’ll let you in through the garage door.”

I removed my mouth mask and goggles and set them on the shelf next to the bags of kitty litter I’d bought in advance.

Something rustled in the bushes outside. “Prince? Princess?” I edged around my scooter and stuck my head outside. “Come on. I know you can hear me. Let’s go—I’ll give you treaties!” I offered.

Usually the word “treatie” made them meow like crazy, but this time they were silent.

I strained my ears to listen, and I heard some leaves rustle in the encroaching forest.

Narrowing my eyes, I extended my hunter senses, searching for the disturbance.

Is that…? Wolves!

I spun around, intending to sprint for the door, but a wolf rammed me from the side, knocking me over.

My heart raced for a second, but I recognized the mottled black pattern of Rio’s coat almost immediately.

Okay, so no immediate death, but this could still hurt. Rio is rough, and this is probably for a “training” session.

I tried to roll to my feet, but Rio latched on to my wrist. He didn’t bite down hard enough to puncture, but he yanked me hard enough that I face planted.

I grabbed pebbles and grit from my gravel driveway with my free hand and flung them at Rio’s face.

He released me and backed up, bumping into a second wolf—a pretty wolf with a sandy brown coat with streaks of gray and black—Aspen.

Aspen leaped over Rio, on trajectory to collide with me.

I rolled to the side so she sailed over me, then scrambled to my feet.

I felt another wolf angling behind me, but Rio had gotten between me and the garage, so I had to step away from it—the last thing you want to do when trying to defend yourself against wolves. House structures are always the safest—after trees, anyway.

When I glanced back I saw a wisp of reddish black in my cottage’s floodlights—which meant it had to be Aeric—and heard the snap of teeth when I barely moved my legs in time.

Cursing every wolf-themed fairy tale that I could think of, I gave up on getting back into the garage and made a break for the trees.