Page 3 of Bound to the Beast

Family is important to me and to the pack, but I’ve never had much luck in that department. Many shifters who choose bachelorhood have strong social relationships to balance out their feral side. Me? Not so much. After my father died, I didn’t really bond with anyone else.

I pause, trying to center myself. The forest around me is alive with the sounds of nature – birds chirping, leaves rustling in the breeze. It’s calming, in a way, but the struggle within me is ever-present. I can feel the eyes of my fellow shifters on me, their whispers just out of earshot. They’re concerned, and rightfully so. My behavior has been erratic lately, and it’s putting everyone on edge.

I’m doing my best to exert control. Some days are harder than others. Doing some manual labor helps a lot.

I finish cutting down the tree, the trunk splintering away with each powerful swing. My muscles ache, but the exertion feels good, a physical release of the tension building within me. I call over one of the loggers to haul it away, my voice gruff from the effort.

“Take this one,” I say, nodding towards the fallen tree. The logger, a young shifter named Kyle, gives me a wary look but nods, hurrying to comply.

I’m hoping that I can find some peace within myself, enough to maintain my position in the pack. Hutch means well, but marriage isn’t in the cards. Not for me. I’ve always preferred solitude, and I’ve never met anyone who can answer my call.

Seeking solace, I make an excuse to wander deeper into the forest. The pack knows I need this time alone, even if they don’t fully understand why. The further I go, the quieter it gets, the sounds of the lumber camp fading into the background. I can almost feel the balance tipping, the feral side gaining ground.

I find another tree and set to work, my swings are almost out of control now. Each thwack of the ax against the trunk is a battle cry, a desperate attempt to maintain my humanity. Sweat pours down my face, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The forest around me seems to close in, the shadows lengthening. Pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion helps somewhat. At least, it seems that way.

Just when I think I might lose control entirely, a woman’s voice calls out, breaking through the haze. I turn, surprised, to see a beautiful young woman approaching me. Her wavy chestnut hair catches the sunlight, and her hazel eyes seem to pierce right through me. All my human and wolf senses heighten at her presence, a strange mix of attraction and wariness flooding my system.

3

GRACE

The next day, I decide to leave the office in the guise of investigating another piece. I tell my editor that I’ve gotten a whiff of something that’s about to break any minute, and he gives me his blessing. I’ll have to come up with something worthwhile, but I’ll worry about that later.

Feeling a twinge of guilt as I drive to the woods, I stifle the feeling. My research is telling me I’m onto something here. Something big.

For most of my life, I thought what happened to Becky was a figment of my imagination. A nightmare I had repressed. My parents didn’t dissuade me from this thought, in fact, they encouraged it. They told me that Becky had died in a car accident, and I believed it for a long time.

It was only recently, a few months before my mother died, that I discovered the truth. I’d been so traumatized after witnessing Becky’s murder, that I hadn’t spoken for months afterward. They’d taken me to therapy, brought me to all my favorite places, bribed me with loads of gifts – and nothing worked. They’d been desperate to help me, so when I finally started talking and acting as if nothing had happened, they played along with it.

Initially, I’d resented the choice they’d taken. Becky had been my best friend. We’d shared birthdays, and toys. We’d walked to school together, had sleepovers at each other’s houses, and promised we’d be each other’s maids of honor. Becky’s parents were so heartbroken at her death, they’d sold their house and moved away.

As an investigative journalist, I could probably find out where they are. But to what purpose? After so many years, I don’t want to reach out unless I have actual news to share. Nothing else will matter.

My mother had been racked with guilt. And, one day, while she was at home in hospice, we started talking about my nightmares. She finally told me the truth. That it hadn’t been a nightmare – at least, not technically one.

I was the sole witness and my initial statements before going into shock had been chalked up as the result of a vivid imagination.

Clenching the steering wheel, I try to shrug off the irritation at the memory. I remember now, and I won’t rest until I find out what really happened to Becky.

Focusing on the research I’d read the night before, I need to knuckle down and find some eyewitnesses who may know something.

I pull into the small gravel lot at the edge of the forest, my heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. I need to find someone who can give me any piece of information, any detail that might help me unravel the truth. The dense woods loom ahead, the morning sunlight filtering through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and start walking down the dirt path, the crunch of gravel under my boots the only sound in the quiet. As I move deeper into the forest, the air grows cooler, the scent of pine and earth filling my senses. I pass by a few hikers and ask them a few questions, but none of them seem like they’d have the answers I’m looking for.

After an hour of wandering, I finally spot a lone lumberjack working up ahead. Even with his back turned, I can't tear my eyes away. Each swing of the ax showcases his broad shoulders and muscular frame. He moves with a raw, commanding power that leaves me mesmerized.

As I draw closer, I take in his tall stature, sinewy arms, and confident stance. A thrill courses through me. Before I can stop myself, I clear my throat softly to get his attention.

He turns, piercing me with intense, smoldering eyes that pin me in place. I take in his chiseled features and day-old stubble, my cheeks flushing warm. He looks me up and down, his gaze possessive but appreciative, seeming to like what he sees

Setting down his axe, he approaches with an animalistic grace. I sense a barely leashed dominance lurking just below the surface.

I open my mouth to respond but words fail me. Up close, his raw masculinity and coiled strength leaves me breathless. He crosses his arms, muscles bulging, waiting expectantly with an arrogant tilt of his lips.

A swell of submission washes over me under his powerful aura. With effort, I finally manage to find my voice. "Hey there. I didn’t mean to startle you," I say softly, cursing myself for sounding so meek.

The lumberjack's eyes gleam with satisfaction. I have a feeling this alpha male likes reducing women to quivering messes. And I can't deny part of me thrills to his dominant energy.

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