Page 4 of Half Wolf Mate

Did I really have a family in New Orleans? Well, sort-of-family. My mother wasn’t related to her group by blood, but still, they were her people. I nibbled on a fingernail, contemplating doing what Lydia said—find the Moon Guardian Pack.

“Oh, my God. This is stupid.” I dropped my head into my hands. “Werewolves aren’t real.” My mother, Lydia, and Sam, were all delusional, for sure. And I wasn’t in danger. Aunt Lydia must have been attacked by burglars, not wolves.

Annoyed with myself for entertaining the madness, I threw everything back into the box and shoved it into my backpack. I needed to focus on reality. My reality right now was that I was starving. My stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since this morning. Heaving a sigh, I got up and grabbed my purse from my backpack. I’d have to make do with whatever was in the vending machine I saw in the lobby.

I opened the door and took a step, only to be shoved back inside. Before I could let out a scream, a hand clamped over my mouth. The first thing that popped into my mind was that Sam was right. Maybe whoever killed my aunt found me.

Chapter 3 Sydney

“If you stay quiet, I might make this quick.” The man’s voice was eerily calm. My attacker still had my mouth covered, so I couldn’t respond. Then again, what would I even say?

Yes, sir, Mr. Murder, I’ll be quiet so you can get on with killing me?

I didn’t want to die! My mind raced just as fast as my heart, and adrenaline flooded my system. It was fight-or-flight time, and I leaned toward flight. But how would I get away from him?

To buy myself a little time, I nodded and forced out a muffled “Okay.”

The hand lifted away, and I took a much-needed breath. Slowly, I backed away to put distance between us and to get a look at my attacker. The man wasn’t tall, probably only a few inches taller than my five feet four inches. However, he was stocky, with arms like pythons. I bet he could strangle the life out of me without breaking a sweat. That visual had me taking another retreating step.

“I…I don’t have any money,” I said. A small part of me hoped this was a regular human mugging and not some supernatural drama. Uncle Sam’s accusation that I was only half human, along with my aunt’s and mother’s letters, had me thinking crazy like them.

The man laughed, but the sound was devoid of humor. What made him twice as terrifying was the ghastly scar running from his left eyebrow, across his nose, and stopping at his right cheek. He looked like a true killer.

As he stepped closer, he scanned the room. Then his gaze zeroed in on me. “I don’t want money, half-wolf,” he said.

My dread mounted. While I’d entertained the thought that maybe my aunt and uncle were delusional, I knew this man wasn’t. Looking into his flat cold eyes, he seemed perfectly logical…and deadly.

“I’m not a werewolf.” My voice quivered, but I kept my chin angled upward in defiance. Even if everyone hadn’t gone insane and there were such things as supernatural creatures, I certainly wasn’t one of them. I snorted. “If I were anything but human, I think I’d know.” In all my nineteen years, I’d never run around on all fours, howled at the moon, or…did whatever else werewolves did.

I was so irritated with this entire situation I forgot I was facing a killer, and my flippant switch turned on. I rolled my eyes at the man. “You think if I were a big bad wolf, you’d have me cornered like this? Threatening me? I’d rip you to shreds, buddy.” When my annoyance dwindled, I reminded myself to watch how I spoke to the man. It wasn’t a good idea to get him angry.

To my surprise, the man’s lips lifted into a grin. “I like you. You’ve got guts, kid. Maybe you won’t scream like that woman I gutted earlier. She said she was your aunt.”

“You killed her?” I whispered.

“She begged for her life,” the man taunted.

The little smirk he wore as he casually talked about murdering someone I loved stirred a rage inside me I’d never felt before. It wasn’t the typical annoyance I felt when a customer at the café I worked at was rude. Or the fury I often experienced when Uncle Sam picked a fight with me for no reason. This was something darker—as if something else lurked beneath my skin. It frightened me.

The man reached under his leather jacket for something and took another step toward me. It was a knife. The handle was made from wood, boasting an intricate design of a tree that looked vaguely familiar.

Even with my life in danger, I couldn’t take my eyes off the odd handle as I racked my brain to remember where I’d seen it. Then realization dawned. I’d seen a drawing of the symbol among the pictures and letters in Aunt Lydia’s box.

“I thought it was sweet how she begged for your life, too.”

The man’s voice filtered into my racing thoughts.

“She pleaded with me to spare you until her last breath,” he said.

My jaw tightened. “Shut up.” That strange swirl of murderous rage rose again, and my fists balled. The emotion was uncomfortable because it wasn’t me. I’d never been the violent type. What was happening to me? I felt as if I wanted to rip the man’s throat out.

I froze. I don’t think I even took a breath. It felt as if something wild lurked beneath my skin, wanting to burst free. Could I really be half-beast? My curious nature demanded I analyze this new sensation, but logic told me I had to get away, or I’d end up like Aunt Lydia.

Eyes on the weapon the man held, I asked, “What does that symbol mean?”

He was inching closer to me, and he stopped, eyes widening. “I expected tears, not questions. You do realize I’m here to kill you, right?”

I’ve never been one to easily descend into hysterics, even when afraid. If this man expected me to cry and beg for my life, it would never happen. “Yes, I got that the moment you made the threat earlier.”

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