Beneath a Blood Moon by R. J. Blain Read Free Book Online

for real prey.

    I slept, and when I woke up, I was sprawled on the cabin floor. Blood caked me from head to toe, cracking where it had dried on my skin. The wolf still lurked within me, and her satisfaction strengthened as she noticed my attention focusing on her.
    When I had needed her, she had come, and now that she had me, she wasn’t going to let me go. I shuddered, curling in a ball, but I couldn’t deny her existence. She howled in my head, and the memory of her slaughtering Isabella and Rory returned with chilling clarity.
    The wolf—my wolf—had delighted in the kill, and she had offered their bodies to me as a gift. She was the price for my life, and she demanded my acknowledgment of her.
    Another shudder rippled through me, and I stared at my bare legs, the memory of Rory and Isabella savaging me so fresh that the pain of it lingered in my bones. A sob built up in my chest, and I was aware of my wolf’s confusion.
    When I had needed her, she had come, and she didn’t understand why I still hurt. My arms and legs had healed thanks to her and the power of the moon. Revenge was mine; a gift from her to me, and those who had tried to hunt us would never do so again. Such was the way of her world.
    I somehow made it to the bathroom before I threw up. My tears blinded me, and fumbling my way into the shower, I washed away the evidence of the monster I had become. It didn’t help me forget.
    In a numb daze, I searched the cabin for clothes. Finding a pair of sweats, I dressed and ventured out into the desert. Maybe if I left the cabin behind, I would wake up at home and everything would prove to be nothing more than a bad dream.

Chapter Four

    My apartment was as I left it, but I found no comfort in its familiarity. I had no real memory of how I had gotten home; the walk through the desert had ended with me staggering through my door in the wee hours of the morning.
    According to my answering machine, I had been gone for almost a week. My hope the wolf was a figment of my imagination died each and every time she stirred, waking emotions and desires I had never before endured in such strength.
    She wanted to mate, and she found men—all men—interesting. I considered myself fortunate she hadn’t insisted on acting on any of her impulses yet. The nausea I had suffered since returning to the cabin had worsened, and my wolf worried. Apparently throwing up every ten minutes wasn’t natural in her world, and her worries for my health trumped her desires to mate with each and every man in sight.
    The only evidence Rory had been to my apartment was the bouquet of red and white roses. Despite the passage of time, they were still in bloom. My tears returned, and in my desperation to make the roses disappear, I shredded them with my bare hands, dripping blood all over my bedroom carpet as their thorns tore through my skin. I flushed them down the toilet, broken steams and all.
    I tried to clean away the stains on the carpet, but they refused to come out, leaving behind brown splotches as a morbid reminder of what I had done. Through it all, my wolf watched and waited for me to come to my senses so we could hunt for a mate.

    Three days of hiding in my apartment did nothing to curb my wolf’s immediate need to mate. I doubted I would ever get used to having a wolf sharing my skin, especially not when she viewed men as potential mates, food, or both. She didn’t speak in words, but she had no scruples about letting me know who she wanted when I was stupid enough to leave home.
    Her constant state of arousal left me shaking, sweating, and wondering how I’d make it through a Friday night shift without ending up in a stranger’s bed. No matter how low I turned the air conditioning, I boiled, which wasn’t helping me gather the courage to leave for the club.
    I paced my bedroom, halting near the door to stare at one of the dark splotches on the tan carpet. If I called in sick again, I’d either lose my job or someone