Page 68 of His Claim
Adrenaline screamed through me. I shoved upward with everything I had, slamming him down hard. His body hit the ledge, his head snapping back, dazed for a heartbeat too long.
That heartbeat was mine.
I pounced, sinking my jaws into his throat, deeper, harder, until the fight bled out of him. His claws scraped weakly at my side, then fell still. His eyes glazed, the glow dimming, and his body went limp beneath me.
I released him, my chest heaving, blood dripping from my muzzle. My whole body trembled, fur bristling, pain burning hot where his claws had torn through my flesh.
But I was still alive, and he wasn’t.
The mountains loomed above and the valleys below, vast and merciless, and for the first time, I realized just how fragile I was out here.
I shifted back to my human form, collapsing against the cliff wall, naked, injured, and shaking, the knife lying useless a few feet away, the tatters of my clothes scattered across the ledge. My breath came ragged, my pulse hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.
I couldn’t rest here. It was too dangerous.
So I forced myself up, blood still dripping from my wounds, and picked up the knife and my discarded pack with trembling fingers. I needed to find clothes. Shelter. Food. Supplies.
I closed my eyes.
Think, Mariah. Think.
My eyes popped open as I remembered an old house I’d passed about an hour ago. At the time, I’d ignored it, too afraid of who or what might be inside, but I couldn’t now. I needed to go back.
The trail back down was rough, the loose shale biting into my bare feet, but I forced myself onward. The house appeared through the trees like a ghost from another life: two stories, slanted roof half-collapsed, windows dark and broken. The porch sagged, weeds choking the steps. It smelled of damp wood and decay, but nothing else. There were no signs of life, wolf or human.
I slipped inside through the front door, the hinges groaning loud enough to make me wince. The air was stale and heavy with mildew. Dust motes swirled in the pale light cutting through the broken windows.
It was strange, being in a house again. Four walls, even broken ones, felt different than caves or tunnels. It reminded me of a life I’d never really had, one where people lived without cages or patrols, where you could sleep without counting the minutes until someone dragged you away to be used for their own purposes.
Upstairs, I found a closet with a few old clothes still hanging. Most were moth-eaten or stiff with rot, but I pulled together a pair of jeans that only had a small tear at the knee and a flannel shirt that smelled faintly of cedar, as well as a belt and pair of boots that were only a half a size too big. The clothes were too large for my small frame, but it would be better than walking through the Rockies fully naked. I put a few more sets of clothing into my pack, just in case.
In the kitchen, the cabinets had collapsed, their doors hanging on bent hinges. I scavenged anyway, finding a few dusty jars, one still sealed with pickles floating inside, another with dried beans. Not much, but food was food. In a drawer was one of those long lighters and it miraculously still worked. I could make fires!
The best find was in a drawer near the back door. Wrapped in a mildewed rag was a small handgun with three bullets still in the chamber. I stared at it, heart pounding.
I tucked it into the waistband of my jeans. My knife rested on my hip, but the gun gave me a different kind of comfort. I wasn’t helpless anymore.
Night pressed close outside, the forest whispering with strange sounds. I lit a lantern I found in the corner, the glass cracked but still usable. I curled up under a musty blanket on the dusty, mildewed couch in the living room.
For the first time since leaving Varek, I slept.
The morning came gray and cold, and I woke with a start. My body still ached, but the fog in my head had lifted. I rolled my shoulders, tugged the flannel tighter, and studied the map again.
The house had given me food, a few sets of clothing, supplies, and a weapon. It felt like the mountains themselves had given me a second chance.
I left with a new rhythm in my steps.
The terrain was no kinder, but I was learning. I moved slower, testing the ground before I put weight on it. I followed animal tracks until they led me to water, then refilled the old canteen I’d found in the house. The first time I saw a rabbit dart across the trail, I froze, my wolf urging me to chase, but I gripped the gun instead, raised it with both hands, and squeezed the trigger.
The shot cracked through the trees, harsh and deafening. My heart pounded as the rabbit fell still. My hands shook, but when I picked it up, warm and heavy, I whispered a soft thanks. It was the first kill I’d made as a human, and the first meal I’d hunted for myself.
By the time I finished roasting it over a small fire later that morning, I felt like maybe, just maybe I’d make it.
By midday the sky had gone from steel-blue to bruise-black. Wind came down the slope in gusts that cut like knives, snapping pine boughs, sending needles ticking over the rocks like rain. The scent of moisture and ozone carried on the air and my wolf prickled under my skin in warning.
“Not now,” I muttered to the sky. It didn’t care.
The first thunderclap hit the mountain like a hammer. It rolled through the valley and back again, a deep boom that made my ribs vibrate. I hunched deeper into the flannel and picked up my pace, following the faint game trail that continued up toward a ridge Varek had circled on the map.
