Rejected And Claimed By Her Trio Alpha Mates

chapter 25

I knew not to expect my mates to be normal wolf shifters. Gwen warned me about that fact—feral shifters, she called them. I don’t completely understand what that means beyond the fact that they aren’t affiliated with a pack and are running wild on their quest to destroy the world.

But the fact that their scents can just… vanish?

That’s unheard of. It’s as if they can become invisible, make themselves totally undetectable to even a wolf’s keen nose.

Blondie’s scent vanishes completely near a small clearing in the trees. I circle the whole clearing, trying to pick back up on his signature, but it’s useless. On my second pass, however, I find paw prints hidden beneath a dense layer of wet, dying leaves.

Bingo.

I follow the trail of indentations, kicking aside the fresh layer of leaves with my feet as I walk. It’s peaceful here, with the birdsong and the breeze knocking branches and the sun’s warmth beaming through like waterfalls of gold. There’s green here, lots of it, which is a welcome respite from all the brown I’m used to. Couple the idyllic scenery with the fact that I found a clue and a trail, and I’m damn near ready to celebrate my coming victory.

Those assholes won’t know what hit ’em.

I knock aside another bundle of wet leaves, and the sweet, decaying scent tickles my nose.

Then a searing pain lances through my body.

I gasp from the sudden, unexpected shock and then double over, my fingers clenching like claws. My muscles spasm uncontrollably, and my legs buckle beneath me. I fall to my knees, unable to breathe, my whole body shaking, filled with an agonizing pain worse than anything I’ve ever felt before. Ripples of white-hot pain fill me end to end.

I can’t move my hands.

My arms.

My legs.

My muscles contract, and my vision starts to fade out. I keel over sideways and can’t even catch my fall.

With my face pressed to the dirt and the dense, earthy smell of the forest floor in my nostrils, I know nothing else.

I open my eyes to a white ceiling bisected by wood beams the color of honey.

I’m lying on a soft mattress, and sunshine struggles to filter through the gauzy curtains covering the tiny window beside the bed. If I didn’t know any better, I would think I was back home in my parents’ little cabin, where I woke up beneath the same type of ceiling for twenty-four years. The paint between the beams is a bit brighter than the off-white cream back home, but the resemblance is startling.

Shock sends a zing of adrenaline through me as I remember collapsing in the woods. I sit up so quickly my head spins, but something has a hold of me. Has hold of both my hands, actually. Craning my neck around, I find that my wrists have been tied to the bed frame, leaving my arms in a very uncomfortable position.

Son of a b***h.

I flop back onto the pillows to ease the pressure on my joints and sigh, blowing a lock of my dark hair off my face.

Just my luck. I get hit by a painful bout of food poisoning or some s**t, pass out in the woods, and then get picked up by Oscura’s resident serial killer.

Speaking of pain… I slow my breathing and focus on my body. The pain before I passed out was debilitating, but now, I feel nothing at all. The burn from the shadow beast on my wrist chafes a little beneath the rope restraining me, but the strange muscle contractions and tightening paralysis have stopped.

Okay, I think. That’s a good thing. That means I can try to break free and get the hell out of here before the serial killer gets back.

Of course, an unarmed serial killer would be a cakewalk for a wolf shifter. That’s not really my worry. But if a Ted Bundy wannabe flounces in here with an axe, I might be in trouble. Especially if I’m still restrained.

On my back, it’s easier to incline my head and look up at the ropes without yanking my joints out of place to do it. My hands dangle from purple-patterned mountain climbing rope held in place by intricate knots. I’ve done some mountain climbing in my time—hard not to when you grow up in the mountains—but I don’t recognize this knot.

Fuck.

I start working on the ropes, twisting my wrists and tucking my thumb in an effort to slide my hands free. Tugging on the ropes just seems to pull the knot tighter, and moving up to take the pressure off doesn’t release anything.

Wannabe Ted Bundy really knows his knots.

Shifting is a possibility, of course, but my wolf legs aren’t really any smaller than my normal wrists. Shifters aren’t wolf-sized. Finding myself in wolf form splayed out like this doesn’t sound appealing, and then when it fails and I have to shift back, it’s even less appealing to imagine myself naked and splayed across a bed with a serial killer roaming.