Page 8 of Hunted Ink by Trisha Linde

He wasn’t wrong. My current roomie was lacking in a few departments, one of which was any kind of personal bond between us. And as much as I hated to admit I needed help, I found myself pulling out my phone and dialing my bestie’s number.

He picked up on the fifth ring, right before it went to voicemail. “Who died?” he asked.

“No one. What are you doing right now?”

“Oh, you know, running a marathon. What else would I be doing at this time of night?” he grumbled, heavy on the sarcasm, and I could hear North in the background asking what was wrong. Why did everyone think something was wrong?

I glanced at the clock on the stove and saw that it was well past the bedtime for a father with a young child. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was. Never mind. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“No, Kedi. I’m awake now. Tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

Norman arched a brow at me. “Not fine,” he said pointedly before retreating to his bedroom and shutting the door.

The apartment was once again blanketed in shadows, and I sighed into the darkness. “I met my mate,” I admitted, stepping carefully around the glass to sit on the couch, the cushion molding to my ass like a hug.

“That’s great news!” he squealed as quietly as he could with a baby sleeping down the hall. “Ohmigods, tell me everything! What’s their name? How did you meet? Are they as sexy as you deserve?”

I chuckled stiffly. “Uh, his name is Conroy. We met in the woods—you can tell North his tattoo was accurate, by the way—and yes, it is safe to say the man is hot.” Though we clearly disagreed over whether or not I deserved him.

There was a long pause down the line. Joel might not have been a shifter, but his best-friend radar was crazy accurate. He could discern the slightest wobble in my voice, read the exact tone of silence, pick up the flavor of my mood. “So why aren’t we excited?” he asked somberly.

I bit down on my lip before the whole story could come spilling out. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to hear his advice on how to handle this, but as my best friend, he was biased. It was practically his job to deny any possibility that someone could reject me as their mate. He would try to tell me there was some misunderstanding, that everything would work out in the end, and right now, I just… couldn’t. I was too hurt, too angry, to find any room for hope. It was way too soon for forgiveness, when I didn’t even know where things went wrong.

So, instead of telling him what really happened, I fudged the story a little. “Things are… complicated. I actually know Conroy from when we were kids, and I’m not entirely sure where we stand.” There, none of that was a lie.

“Well, you’ll just have to sit down with him and talk it out. As children, we tend to blow everything out of proportion. Whatever it was—a broken crayon or you didn’t share a toy—I’m sure you’ll be able to get past it. All you need is some mature, adult communication.”

My throat felt tight as I tried to swallow past the lump that had lodged itself in there. I’d never told him the story of my pack’s dark history, and the guilt was hitting me hard right about now. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right,” I whispered.

We said our goodnights, and I tossed my phone onto the couch beside me. Staring at the dark TV, I tried to think of a word to describe how wrung out I felt. Like everything that made me me had been scraped out, leaving me a desiccated, empty shell. How the hell was I supposed to move on from this?

There was nothing to be done about it tonight. I knew I should clean up the glass, have a snack, drink some water, make my way down the self-care checklist that Sierra had us follow until I felt some kind of balance. Instead of doing any of the shoulds, I did the only thing I could. I curled up on the couch and cried myself to sleep. And yes, every tear was worth it.

Chapter 6

Apollo

I would be lucky to make it back to the compound alive, the way I was shaking, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I gripped onto the steering wheel for dear life, with my foot heavy on the gas. I needed to put as much distance between me and that forest as I could. My teeth were chattering, and although my clothes were soaking wet, I didn’t think it had anything to do with the cold. My head was a total mess, unable to cling to any thought for more than a few seconds at a time. The man, the wolf, the forest, the storm, the scorched ruins, the wolf—the man, his deep blue eyes filled with such—

A blaring car horn had my eyes snapping open, blinded by headlights. When the hell did I close my eyes?! “Fuck!” I shouted, jerking the truck back on course out of the way of the oncoming vehicle. The near accident was a bit of a wake-up call, adrenaline sharpening my senses, and I managed to stay focused enough to get back to the compound in one piece. But as soon as I put the truck in park, the confusion returned, anxiety multiplying now that I didn’t have anything to distract me.

Mate, go back, mate, ours.

The voice hadn’t given me a single second of respite since I laid eyes on the man. Shit, no, the monster, I reminded myself, though it was nearly impossible to align the image of that beautiful naked man with the predator that would so gleefully tear out my throat. I shook my head sharply. He would never hurt me—the thought was there before I could reason against it. Because how would I know something like that with any level of certainty. He was a feral wolf! The more I tried to convince myself of that fact, the more my stomach twisted with nausea.

Conroy. He’d called me Conroy.

A wave of conflicting emotions surged up so fast that I gasped. Fear, anger, confusion, and a joy so hot and bright that it was blistering. I slammed my fist down on the dashboard, hard enough to crack the plastic, but I barely felt it.

I should’ve shot him, but I just… couldn’t. Even now, the mere thought of hurting him caused severe revulsion. The only option had been to run. Gods, I’d never run from a target before. What made him so different?

His image was still painted on the backs of my eyelids. I’d never seen anyone who looked quite like him before. He was tall for an omega, with lean muscles covered in so much ink that I could spend a lifetime looking at him and still find new details. My fingers itched to trace over the patterns. His hair was green—green!—and when the moon came out, it glinted across so many piercings, it was like he was some kind of precious gem.

It didn’t seem to matter that I didn’t know his name or anything about him, the scent of him was somehow embedded under my skin like one of his tattoos. It was warm and crisp and sweet, like apples and tree sap. And just like that, I pictured a young boy with familiar blue eyes, his hand warm in mine.

I blinked and it was gone. Was that a memory from my childhood? I thought I’d forgotten everything from before.