Page 7 of What a Wolf Demands

Lost his balance.

Fell against the picket fence. The old wood cracked under his weight. He twisted, and a wicked edge caught him against the side of his neck.

Blood sprayed in an arc, spattering Lily’s face.

She staggered back.

Charlie fell hard on his ass, his legs flying out like a toddler’s after an unexpected fall. He clamped his palm against his neck. Blood pumped through his fingers, quickly staining his shirt and spreading down his side. He coughed and lifted his hand away, then slapped it back in place. “Fuck!”

“Oh . . . my . . .” Her voice trembled. She hunched, reaching for him, then stopped. Her thoughts tripped over themselves. He was an injured werewolf. There were few creatures on earth as dangerous. If his wolf took over, he might strike without realizing it. One well-placed blow could kill her.

But he was also a person. What should she do? There was so much blood. The thick, coppery scent of it hit her nostrils, filling her lungs with the smell of old pennies. Werewolves could regenerate just about any injury, but their advanced healing abilities weren’t limitless. Decapitation was a sure bet for death. So was any serious damage to the heart.

And massive blood loss? Yeah, that could take down a werewolf.

He slumped against the fence. “Get . . .” He squinted like he was struggling to keep her in his sight. “Healer . . .”

“Yes,” she said, nodding frantically. “A Healer. I’ll get a Healer.” There were two wolves in Bon Rêve with that Gift—a young female wolf and her father. They lived a few blocks away.

Charlie coughed again. This time, blood bubbled on his lips. His side was covered now, and a puddle formed on the dirt by his thigh. He grunted and let his hand flop to his lap. He stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy. The wound on his neck gaped like a jagged red mouth.

“Charlie!” Caution flew out the window, and she fell to her knees at his side. “Charlie! Look at me!” She grabbed his face in both hands and turned his head.

His lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyelids fluttered, then closed.

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. She shook him. “Charlie!”

His jaw moved under her hand, and he looked at her.

“Yes!” She gave him a little shake. “Keep talking.”

“You . . .” His voice was a thread of sound.

“Me?” She leaned closer. What was he trying to say?

His eyelids drooped. More blood frothed on his lips.

“No!” She shook him again. “Charlie, talk to me.”

He opened his eyes. Her heart soared.

He held her gaze, his pupils tiny in bloodshot eyes. His brow furrowed as if he wanted to talk but couldn’t.

“What is it, Charlie?”

His chest expanded, then he sighed a single word.

“Murderer.”

His eyes closed, and he slumped against the fence.

For a second, she was immobile. Time stood still while her mind processed what just happened.

Charlie’s dead.

Holy shit, she killed Charlie. Holy shit, she killed him. She stood so fast, her head spun. She groped for the fence, holding herself up as she stared at the body.

The body. Charlie Lafont was no more. Now, he was a corpse on the ground.

---