Wolf on the Rise

Chapter 2: Poison.

Chapter 2: Poison.

Stella kicked the stand on her motorcycle. The engine sputtered, then died, leaving silence in its wake. She ripped off her black helmet, plopping it on her seat. Her gaze fixed on Holden's sad, run-down shack, which she'd secretly been visiting for the last three months. Its weathered wood leaned like an old person, tired and resigned.

She could pinpoint the exact moment this forbidden love affair began. She'd been working at the little town café when Holden walked in, something about him drawing her eyes. He'd said he was staying in his grandpa's cabin for the summer. He'd ordered a slice of apple pie, then, to her horror, asked for cheese. She still recalled the disgust and shock as she watched a perfectly good piece of apple pie, crowned with a slice of sharp cheddar, pass his lips.

Maybe she'd fallen in love with Holden right then. Or perhaps she just wanted to devote her life to making sure he never ruined pie like that again.

The cabin door opened as if Holden sensed her presence. The man filled the doorway, his silhouette blocking out the light inside the shack. Her boyfriend was over six feet tall, twenty-five years old, and his frame radiated power. Thick, corded muscles strained against his white shirt, making him seem seasoned and older somehow.

“Stella?" Holden's deep voice drifted across the dirt yard. He crossed the distance in a few ground-eating steps. He swept her into an embrace, those big muscles closing around her five-foot-five frame.

And then, the dam broke.

Tears gushed from her eyes, hot and relentless.

“What's wrong?" Holden coaxed.

“I can't talk about it," she sobbed, the words torn from her throat.

“I understand." His voice wrapped around her, a warm, steady presence that offered patience and understanding, things she found nowhere else. His jaw rubbed against her forehead as he rocked her body against his broad chest. In his arms, she felt peace.

Most of the time, Stella carried the weight of her father's expectations. As the Alpha's daughter, with no male provided for the pack, she felt like the son Robert never had. She'd shed dresses, high heels, and makeup. She worked and toiled, grinding to make money, trying to help her pack in any way. Stella tried to act like the absence of soft things and sweet things didn't matter. But they did. And with Holden, she could peel away her burdens, and just be—soft, sweet, and curled in his arms.

“Come inside, Flower." Holden's voice was smooth as velvet, deep and husky, like he could read for a sexy hero in a romance novel. Every sentence out of Holden's mouth sent a tremor through her. Stella both loved and hated his voice. When Holden spoke, it made her instinctively want to submit. She longed to hear that husky cadence. But he was a human, and wolves didn't bow down to humans. Ever. They didn't surrender to them, but that's what she wanted to do.

She considered the nickname, Flower. The moment Holden discovered her name was Stella Rose, he started using that nickname. She'd tried to convince herself she didn't like it, but she did.

Holden tugged her toward his cabin. They stepped inside the single room. The man was as poor as they came. He owned a laptop computer, probably worth more than the shack itself, but that was the extent of his assets. He eased her onto his mattress on the floor, and her foot brushed against a duffel bag.

As much as she was surrounded by nothing when she was here, she preferred it to Aten's mansion. At least here, she had Holden's love and care, and that was worth more than all the wealth of her home.

Holden stripped off her boots, then her leather coat. He wrapped her in his quilt, the fabric scratching gently against her skin, and then checked his pocket watch.

“When you check that pocket watch, you look like an eighty-year-old man waiting for a train." A weak smile tipped her lips while she swiped her tears with the back of her hand. Teasing him about his old man tendencies always amused her, even in the worst situations.

“I'm seventy-nine, not eighty," he joked back, a crinkle of amusement around his eyes. “And if I were waiting for a train, I'd be on time. I own a watch." Holden tucked his pocket watch into his jeans. He knelt on the floor before her, his blue eyes scanning her tear-stained cheeks. “Are you sure you don't want to talk about what's wrong?"

“I can't."

But Stella desperately wanted to discuss her lack of shape-shifting. The problem was… wolf laws had been in place since the first werewolf change in ancient Rome. Humans didn't understand magic and killed what they didn't understand. Her lips had to stay closed.

One of his big, rough, calloused hands took hers, his thumb stroking her knuckles. Stella lifted her eyes to Holden's—blue like glittering sapphires. She'd never seen blue eyes like his, or hair as black, thick, and wavy. Everything about Holden called out to her.

Then suddenly, his eyes swam before her vision, blurring. She inhaled, trying to clear her head. A burn ignited in her belly, then slithered outward, a coil of fire tightening with each beat of her heart. She glanced down at her hand, her veins pulsating like a web of blue-silver rivers beneath her skin.

What was happening?

Holden grabbed her hand, a scowl dropping like a mask over his softer expression.

“What happened? Tell me. We need to call for help." His voice lost its soft, sweet tone. Holden's growl was a low, feral sound as the world tilted again. It was just like when she was on the stage.

“No help. No doctors." Her voice sounded thin and distant. She'd thought it was embarrassment making her feel sick earlier, but now… Was she ill? Wolf shifters never got sick.

“Flower?" Holden's voice rasped, a frantic edge of fear lacing his words.

The nickname still hung in the air as the cabin door opened. Suddenly, Holden's best friend, Abdiel, stood in the doorway.

“Abdiel," Holden exhaled the name. “Thank God. Stella is sick. We need your car."

“I was just wondering why her motorcycle was…" The words died on Abdiel's lips. Before her eyes, the man became a swirl of brown skin and short black hair. Usually, Stella thought of the thirty-year-old as a handsome charmer, but now Abdiel swirled before her vision into an unattractive, shifting blob. She slumped forward, her limbs heavy as lead.

Holden caught her.

“I think Stella's been poisoned." Holden squeezed her as her eyes slipped shut with the crushing weight of a thousand irons. “Can your wife—"

“Yeah." Abdiel's words circled her, distant and muffled. “Let's go."

Then there was darkness.