Dreaming of the Wolf (Heart of the Wolf #8)(43)

The flashlight’s faint beam was pointed in the direction of the bed, but it didn’t stretch farther than a few inches and so didn’t reach beyond the door, which still shielded her view of the intruder.

With what appeared to be fresh resolve, he moved quickly beyond the door, headed for the bed with flashlight and gun poised. Shit. He was armed and looked like he wanted to play really rough.

Despite the black hoodie hiding his hair and some of his profile, she saw his large hooked nose, and he looked damn familiar. She narrowed her eyes.

The creep that had tried to force her out of the restaurant in Breckenridge before Jake came to her aid. The same one who had been with the man she’d shot on the trail where she’d laid her mother’s memorial wreath. His light flicked over the empty bed, the covers tossed aside. His flashlight swept over the chair where her clothes now lay. Hell. He would know she was still in the room. That she hadn’t gone out to party. Party, right. The town boasted one rickety motel, and the whole place looked to have rolled up the sidewalks hours before sunset.

His gaze shifted to the bathroom. She barely breathed. Not once looking in her direction, he headed slowly for the bathroom.

Had he followed her all the way here from Breckenridge? She wondered if he’d watched her when she arrived at the hotel and then waited until she’d taken her shower, turned out the lights, and climbed into bed. Maybe waited until sufficient time had passed for her to fall asleep. Or had he just located her car and was working blind?

She didn’t think she had enough time to shape-shift and then dress and bolt from the room, start the car, and leave. No, she knew she didn’t have time for all that.

The thought of running out of here in her wolf form terrified her. She wasn’t equipped to deal with the wolf angle in the wild. She didn’t want to leave her car behind or her other possessions. And if she bolted out of here, the thug would discover that Alicia, the woman, wasn’t here and most likely would wait for her to return.

He slid the shower curtain aside with a swift jerk, the metal rings sliding across the metal pole with a scratching sound.

Now he knew for certain she wasn’t in there, and he’d come out, maybe try looking under the bed, or maybe glance in her direction and see her standing here as a wolf, staring him down in the dark.

He’d shoot her, and no one would ever know she’d disappeared, and no one would even care.

She changed her mind and was able to summon the shift again—to her astonishment and guarded relief—before he left the bathroom. Maybe having been a werewolf for seven weeks with a couple of weeklong breaks and then the trouble she’d had with it earlier, like she’d just had to get used to it again, had finally enabled her to get some control over this shape-shifting business.

She grabbed the gun from her purse.

As soon as the pinprick of light headed out of the bathroom and he followed, she wondered if she had made another mistake and should have stayed in her wolf form. Standing naked with only a gun in her hand for defense made her feel horribly vulnerable.

But then again, she could see well in the dark while he couldn’t.

That’s when he must have caught a glimpse of her, and he aimed his weapon with cold-bloodedness. She’d already anticipated his action and moved right before he fired a shot. The round hit the wall behind her, and she fired three times, all three slugs hitting something solid. His only response was a grunt, then he slid down the wall, leaving a trail of blood.

Oh, God. She stared at him in disbelief as the acrid odor of gun smoke wafted through the air. How could this thug do this to her? The past few weeks had already been bad enough!

Then she shifted her attention to the open door. What if there were more of them? What if he wasn’t acting alone? They never acted alone. At least she didn’t think so.

Her hands shaking, she quickly shoved her gun in her purse, sprinted across the floor, and closed the door, locking it—although that hadn’t done a lot of good before. She rushed to the man and checked his wrist and then his neck for a pulse. None.

She returned to her suitcase, pulled out black jeans and a black sweatshirt, and hurriedly jerked them on.

She looked back at the man, his mouth open, his eyes staring lifelessly at her, his head leaning against the wall.

Dead. He was dead.

Perspiration trickled down her breasts despite the cool air, and she rubbed her arms as her heart continued to beat at a racer’s pace. God, what was she to do now?

She had to call this in to the police, as much as she didn’t want to. If any of this guy’s buddies were about, and she hung around to meet with the police, she’d be dead meat. And no number of police in this rinky-dink little town could protect her. If they even had any police here.

But she was one of the good guys, she had to remind herself. She couldn’t kill a man and leave the scene of the crime without just cause.

She paced.

Hell, if she didn’t call it in, someone else in the motel was sure to have heard the gunshots and would dial 9-1-1, and then the police would question her as to why she hadn’t called it in. She would sound guiltier than she already felt. Even though he had broken into her room and tried to kill her first.

She jerked the phone off the hook next to the bed and punched in the number, then lifted the receiver to her ear. An eerie silence met her ear. The line was dead. Another spiral of fear cascaded down her spine. He’d cut the phone lines. This was so not good.