Page 8 of Rogue If You Want To
Did that mean I could shift? I reached for my otter. He felt so far away, but he was there. I inhaled deeply again. This time I scented him—the man holding me.
Amber and lavender and cedar, all mixed together in this beautiful scent that called to me.
Oh, fuck.
He’s my mate.
And I’m rogue.
And my brother thinks I’m dead.
Now what?
5
TORIN
I searched for hours, getting more desperate every minute. And just before dusk, I followed a trail of blood over sharp rocks that must have fallen from the cliff face during the last storm.
And I found him.
He was covered in blood, and at the sight of his mangled flesh, I thought he was dead. And I wanted to be gone too if he no longer had a pulse. But I picked up his labored breathing as his chest rose ever so slightly, and I fell to my knees, ignoring the pain from the rocks.
His hair was matted with blood and dirt, his nails were torn, and his skin had peeled back to reveal deep, gaping wounds. No human did that. It was an animal, one with sharp claws, but not a wolf. The angle of the wounds suggested a large animal whose claws or talons sliced downward from a height.
My mate’s only hope for survival was to shift. While taking his animal form wouldn’t heal his wounds instantly, it would save his life and he wouldn’t need medical attention.
The stench of blood and flesh was overwhelming, especially for my shifter senses, but it was my heart that was affected more than by what I was witnessing and smelling. This was my mate, and his life was ebbing away.
“Hey, I need you to shift. Can you do that?”
His eyes fluttered open and fixed on my face, but he wasn’t seeing me. Or he was and he thought I was going to hurt him too. His glazed expression accompanied by the moaning signaled he might lose consciousness and I’d never get him to shift. So I tried a different approach.
“I’m Torin. What’s your name?”
He mumbled, and I placed my ear close to his bruised lips. Despite his injuries, his scent wasn’t diminished, but instead of intoxicating, it was imploring me to save him.
I vowed that I would. “I’m here and I’m not leaving.” I brushed the hair off his brow. My fingers slid through the congealed blood, and anger festered inside me at who would do this and leave my mate to die.
“Otto.” That one word must have taken a huge effort.
“Otto, can you shift? You won’t be in so much pain and I can get you patched up.”
He parted his lips, but the effort of speaking must have been too much and he closed his eyes. I caught a whiff of something that reminded me of water. Not that water had a smell, unless it was bacteria in it causing a stink. No, what I scented was maybe water laden with dead leaves, so a body of fresh water. Perhaps my mate’s beast was an aquatic animal.
Is he dead? Bang his chest, Torin. You know how to do that.
He’s still breathing. But we can’t stay here.He might die.
Driving back down the mountain would take an hour, but from Saxon’s directions, I was close to the Stoney River place. They might have a healer that Mr. Garrison said was common in traditional packs. Or they might be able to convince Otto’s beast to shift. I had no experience with talking to beasts, but surely they would.
Trying not to injure Otto more than he already was, I bent low and scooped him up. He must have been semi-conscious because he groaned and his body tensed. I whispered that I was taking him to someone who could help. Though if they refused, he was screwed.
And it was dark. I thanked the goddess for my enhanced eyesight. Though I had shifter strength, carrying Otto back to the car was a marathon. And he moaned as I jostled him, bending low to avoid tree branches and leaping over rocks. Carrying him through the stream washed off some of the blood and made his injuries more visible. They were deep, and I sensed the anger in the claws that made them.
I wanted to stop and rest, worried I’d drop him, but I had to keep going, so I staggered over dusty patches until I arrived at the car. Laying him in the back seat and covering him with a blanket, I stood for a moment, not wanting to lose sight of him. But my wolf could watch him while I drove. The expression “having eyes in the back of your head” had to have come from shifters.
He’s not moving.
