Page 1 of Defeated

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ZOE

My wolf growls as a U-Haul pulls to a stop outside the narrow brown-brick townhouse.

Quiet, I soothe my irritated wolf.

A second later, so does my stomach.

Silencing it isn’t as easy, so I press my palm over my hollow belly and hope the next growl won’t give away my position crouched behind a lime green Toyota. I nearly hadn’t made it in time before I realized I might need to hide.

A dark-haired man in blue jeans and a gray T-shirt climbs out of the U-Haul and peers up at the house I’ve spent the last week observing.

I couldn’t tell you the last name of the guy who lives there, his favorite color, or if he has any family in the world. One thing drives me here, day after day, like an addict who can’t stay away. He saved my life.

It was not this guy.

So who the hell are you? And what are you doing here?

I drag in a deep breath, needing to know more than my eyes can tell me.

He’s attractive in an unselfconscious, serious kind of way, but that means nothing when the only thing a shifter has ever tried to do is cage me.

The shifter—and he is a shifter, from his coiled strength and the way he’s subtly sniffing—is too far away to pick up his scent. The overpowering stench of rotting trash, ripe sewer, engine exhaust, and a myriad of other disgusting street smells means I need to move closer.

I don’t.

If I can’t smell him, he can’t smell me. And if I moved closer…

No. Not worth the risk.

At first glance, he looks nice. Not like the sort of shifter who would run a woman down and try to force her to be his mate. I’ve come across my fair share to know the difference.

Maybe he’s just better at hiding his cruelty than the others?

Could be. It wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong about someone, and at twenty-two, I’m young enough to be wrong some more.

But I don’t think I am. Wrong, that is. Kindness is…

Rare.

So rare I haven’t run up against it for so long I’ve been having serious doubts for some time now if it even exists. This guy, whoever he is, looks nice.

He won’t be. But he looks it.

His dark brown hair is short and soft-looking, with hints of light caramel woven through. His eyes, a warm honey-brown, are kind. And he has the lean, long physique most shifters have. Lean does not mean weak.

I’ve run often enough to have learned that particular lesson a million times over.

In another world, I might have trusted the kindness in his eyes as he stands at the foot of the townhouse’s steps, peering around him as if he can feel the sharpness of my focus.

Now I know better to trust any kindness. It’s a mask to conceal a harder, crueler kind of shifter.

Where the hell is Colton?

The man fishes a slim silver cell phone from the back pocket of his blue jeans and taps out a message that takes less than a minute.

As my stomach rumbles from going too long without a meal to fill it, the shifter slams the U-Haul door shut, returns the cell phone to the same pocket and jogs up the townhouse’s stairs.

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