Page 11 of Samuel
My reflection looked… off.
The person staring back at me felt familiar yet different, like something fundamental had shifted inside me. Then I saw it.
On the side of my neck, a raised bite mark—clean and precise, the size of a fist.
My breath hitched in my throat. I reached up, fingers brushing over the mark. It was real. It wasn’t a hallucination.
My stomach lurched, and I bolted to the nearest door. The bathroom, thank God.
I barely made it to the toilet before everything came rushing up, retching until I had nothing left.
I coughed, gagged, and clung to the porcelain like a lifeline.
When I finally pulled myself together, I shuffled to the sink, rinsing my mouth and splashing cold water on my face.
Please be gone. Please.
I looked in the mirror again, but the mark was still there, mocking me. A bite mark. No.
I knew what it was, but I refused to acknowledge it.
No shifter would give a hunter their mate mark. It was absurd. It went against everything I knew.
I closed my eyes, remembering fragments. A voice—growly but gentle, a shadowed face hovering over me as I lay dying.
That wasn’t my imagination. I had been dying. And then…
No. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—connect the dots. Right now, I had one priority: get the hell out of here.
I searched the bathroom cabinets and found a pair of jogging pants.
They were too big, but I tightened the drawstrings and made do.
When I stepped back into the room, my eyes darted to the closed door.
What was my situation here? Was I a hostage? A mate? The thought churned my stomach again.
Yet… something about the memory of that voice, that touch, stirred something else inside me.
Something dangerous. Something possessive.
Snap out of it, Blake. I had to focus. First things first: shoes. I couldn’t traverse the forest barefoot, especially in this condition.
Weapons were another priority. There had to be something I could use in this cabin.
Knives, maybe? It wasn’t ideal, but I’d take whatever I could find.
I edged out of the room, wincing as the door creaked. The cabin was quiet.
No sign of anyone—yet. The kitchen was small, just a few feet away. I found a cleaver, not much, but better than nothing.
Then, by the front door, a pair of boots—again too big, but I shoved my feet into them anyway. Better oversized than nothing at all.
I exhaled softly, testing the handle of the front door. It turned with ease. I stepped outside, into the crisp, forest air.
That’s when I saw him. Sitting on the porch, casually, as if he had all the time in the world, was a man.
He was striking, in a way that sent an involuntary shiver through me.
