Bound by Fate (Moon Bound Series Book 1) (25 page)

It felt wonderful to be in wolf-form readying herself for a hunt.  She loped through the forest in a formation with the most senior member of the hunting party in front.  She remembered him introducing himself in the Common House.  His name was Wallace, the battle-scarred hunter.  She appraised the many marks on his sleek coat as he jogged across the forest floor, quiet as a mouse. 

Beth hung on the outskirts with September, being the most inexperienced hunter of the group.  It was Beth’s job to make sure this expedition was enjoyable for the girl, and so she repressed her natural instinct to race ahead and join the senior members.  She had been a keen hunter in her old pack and was afforded a place in the second line of formation, directly behind her Den Father in the first line.

Reveling in the absence of a pack tie when she wanted her thoughts to herself, Beth discovered it was vastly different being on a hunt without the benefit of the pack’s input.  For the first time in her life, Beth wished for the hustle and bustle of other wolves’ thoughts in her mind.  She didn’t know which direction they were heading, or if prey had been scented yet. 

If there were a pack tie, she’d already know all of this information.  It would come to her instantly; as soon as someone scented prey, she would know.  Now she was relying on her eyes and ears more than usual, and the strain was evident in the stiff line of her body.  Cocking her head this way and that, attempting to decipher soft growls and yips from wolves she’d not yet met was driving her insane.

She also knew that September would have benefited from a way to converse, to be reassured.  The girl was skittish as a newborn foal, and Beth, though trying her best to be encouraging could only do so much without words, and she knew it might be only a matter of time before the girl ducked out, or made a mistake.

They came upon a creek bed, long since dried up and spread out more uniformly along the bank.  Apparently something had been spotted or scented, as the group broke off in groups of three.  The Master of the Hunt loped ahead with two wolves.  Mickey trotted to the left with two of his own companions, while three other wolves she had met only briefly hung back, presumably to chase the quarry on, and block any retreat.

That left herself, September and the apprentice, Felicity, to flank from the right.  Fine with her.  She was good at this.  Beth tried to tell herself the apprentice only shadowed them for September’s sake, but she failed dismally, instead seeing the she-wolf in a new light as she growled and nipped at her haunch. 

Growling mightily, Beth snapped at the healer’s foreleg.  She may be younger, but she outranked a healer’s apprentice any day, and hunting was her forte. 
How dare she be so rude?
  Both females stood, hackles raised, each trying to stare the other down.  Another growl tripped from Beth’s muzzle as she stalked closer.

The apprentice dropped her gaze and whined softly, tale tucked up between her legs, apparently remembering her place in the pack, albeit belatedly, and Beth knew she’d succeeded in her effort to claim her own spot in the pack hierarchy.  Throwing her head toward the other hunting parties, Beth raced off, September and Felicity close on her heels.  The three males hanging back to drive the prey forward exchanged looks as the three females passed, before trotting on at a fast walk.  Manners be damned, Beth was not going to stand for that sort of intimidation.  It wouldn’t have set well with her in her old pack where she had little or no status, and it wouldn’t wash here, either.

The hunt took them far from the village, over many miles, and in the course of the journey, Beth figured out it was a stag they were driving on.  She caught sight of its antlers shining in the light of the moon which had steadily climbed to crown the navy sky.  She growled, sweeping closer, and the stag bolted in the direction of the party to the left, who in turn drove it back to the right, only to be pushed on ever further by the group lagging behind. 

Panicking now, the stag rolled its eyes, fast draining its vast reserves of stamina to race further into the night.  Beth glanced behind to be sure September had kept up.  The girl was a surprisingly adept hunter.  Gracefully flying over fallen logs and twisted roots, never once losing her footing once she’d given herself over to the wolf.  Felicity, never far behind either, bounded a hair’s breath from the tip of the girl’s tail.  An unlikely trio, they drove the beast ever onward.

Spying a large clearing up ahead, Beth guessed they would take the animal down once they reached it.  The stag was tiring now, she noticed, its coat foaming, steam rising from its heated flesh. 
Survival of the fittest,
she thought before letting out a chilling howl on the spur of the moment.  It was answered almost immediately from the wolves behind and to her left.  The only one strangely unaffected was Felicity, who seemed to be in a sulk.  What Beth had done to deserve her rancor, she couldn’t begin to guess.

Shrugging the thought off, she leaped faster, longer, closer, and the stag went haywire, emitting short, frightened snuffling sounds, its legs faltering.  He was staggering now, but still not out of the game.  Beth hung back a bit and let the animal get a second wind, driving it into the waiting jaws of the hunting party ahead.

It was over quite quickly when it all came down to it.  The Master of the Hunt came bounding out of the long grass in the meadow, howling and snapping, and the stag faltered in its steps, almost falling head over heels in its effort to abort the forward movement.  Too late, he realized his momentum was going to carry him forward like a locomotive, no matter what, and he swung his deadly antlers, crashing into the skull of one of the Master’s comrades. 

All at once the stag fell, its legs crumpling from beneath, his proud head diving toward the ground.  Beth took her opportunity, darting in to sink her sharp canines into the soft flesh of his belly, ripping, tearing side to side like a dog with a bone.

September, caught up in the spirit of the moment, tried to join in, earning herself a gash along her side, just below the ribs.  Dangerous even when down, the stag fought on bravely, striking another of the group before the Master finally managed to get a grip on its throat and tear the front of it away, exposing the spurting artery.

Howls of victory exploded from the throats of the wolves in the meadow, surrounding the growing red stain of the stag’s blood seeping into the earth. 
Of the Earth,
Beth intoned in her mind. 
To the Earth.
It was what her old pack had always said when they’d been successful in a hunt.  Everything was born from the earth, and everything rejoined it, sooner or later.

If a wolf could grin, Beth managed, looking around at the members of the hunt.  Wallace lapped at the blood still spurting sporadically from the torn throat of the animal, while the rest of the group waited.

Eventually the Master raised his head, signaling for Beth to have a taste.  She’d never before been permitted to taste the still flowing blood of the prey of the hunt and she stepped forward nervously, dipping her head toward the steaming gullet.  If she’d imagined Alanna’s wine to be delicious, this was ambrosia.  Rich and salty, the flavor coated her tongue and mouth, sliding down her throat in a hot rush.

Magnificent.  She thanked the Master with a dip of her head and raised her eyes toward September, lying prone on the ground, whimpering.  In the heat of the moment, she’d forgotten the girl’s injury.  Guilt settling like a lead weight in her stomach, washing the pure taste of the kill from her, she started toward the girl, only to stop short as another reached her first, whining and dropping his muzzle toward the long gash on September’s flank.

Mickey.

With a short yip, September snapped at his paw, but he simply raised his leg and swiped at her muzzle.  Wolf-speak for “shut up and let me,” she supposed.  He sniffed the wound, before dragging his tongue across it gently, cleaning any grit or dirt from it.  Beth sighed with relief as September finally stilled and allowed his ministrations.

Perhaps there was hope for them both, after all.  He certainly seemed to care for the girl.  And in turn, September didn’t seem as frightened as she had before now that he was up close and definitely in her personal space.  Beth yawned, suddenly tired and retreated back to the carcass of the stag to join her fellow hunters.

Wallace and his one remaining un-injured partner had already shimmered and were in the process of settling its dead weight between them to carry back to the village.  It would take them a lot longer to get home in human-form, but they couldn’t carry it in wolf-form, so concessions were made, out of practicality. 

Beth spared a glance for the two other injured wolves.  The first one who had taken the stag’s brute force to the skull was awake and alert, if a bit unsteady and would need no treatment, and the second, with a simple flesh wound had also shimmered in order to heal himself.  If September had shimmered, she too would have been healed by now. 
Perhaps she needed the injury,
Beth thought, her eyes once again drawn to the figure of Mickey, still cleaning the obviously clean wound.

And they all lived happily ever after,
she thought. 
Well, almost all,
she amended, thinking of the duty she must perform upon arriving home.  Her time was up; it was Donovan tonight, or Bradley tomorrow.  Shivering in distaste, she loped into the forest amongst the other wolves, intent on getting home as soon as possible.  Soonest begun, soonest finished.

Was there ever a better invention than a shower?  Beth didn’t think so, standing under its scalding, driving force.  She’d arrived home to a dark and empty house and immediately thought of one thing.  A shower.  The smooth, rich lather slid down her body and pooled by her feet as she scrubbed the day’s events from her body, leaving her feeling delightfully tingly and clean.

Rinsing off, she allowed herself to consider her decision.  Was she right to break her Bond with Gareth?  The buzzing in the back of her mind told her so.  Was she right to feel terrified that it would all go wrong?  She didn’t know.  If she broke their Bond, and Gareth was hurt because of it she’d never forgive herself.  But how would she know?

She hadn’t felt anything from the other pack since leaving the territory, not even in wolf-form.  She supposed if the incessant droning of the inner chatter disappeared by the time she got to her creek most days, all the way out here…the pack tie was next to useless.

The only way to find out if her pack tie even existed anymore would be to travel back to the Loam Floor territory – an act she was not willing, or able to do.  So she had little choice but to forge ahead.  If it were left up to her, she could admit in her deepest thoughts, she’d rather not Bond with anyone else.  She would always love her Guardian. 

A sound alerted her to the fact that she was not as alone as she’d previously thought.  She heard a weary sigh and the
thump-thump
of discarded shoes hitting the polished wooden floor in the next room.  Donovan was home.  She finished rinsing and dried off, quickly rubbing a plush, white towel over her body and hair.  Not bothering to pull on a dressing gown, she let the door swing open to reveal her damp, naked body to the man lying across the bed.

He lifted his face and his expression, a mixture of lust and weariness made her squirm.  Shouldn’t he be rushing over to whisk her off her feet?  “Donovan?” she queried, softly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t join you for the hunt,” he replied, and she brushed his apology aside.  “I had a meeting with my father.”

His eyes pierced her and she wanted to pull the dressing gown from the back of the door and hide herself from his gaze.  Something was wrong.  “He explained how the Bond works.”

“Oh?”

“
I can’t do it, Beth.”  He groaned in despair.  “I can’t Bond with you.  I can’t risk you that way.”

“
Risk me?  In what way?”  Her mind whirled, and she did wrap herself in the gown before seating herself on the chair by the window.  She gazed around the lush room, seeing none of the splendid decor.  The chocolate brown silk curtains may as well have been sheets of paper, and the massive oak bed, dressed in rich green cotton may as well have been a bed of nails.

She focused her gaze on the face of her mate, and tried to wrap her mind around the idea that he wouldn’t, or couldn’t finish this mating.  “Please, Donovan,” she whispered when he made no reply.  “Speak to me.”

“I can’t risk you going mad,” he told her on a ragged whisper.  “I can’t risk you turning feral and drifting off into the woods alone forever.”  He rose from the bed and in one fluid motion dragged her from her seat and crushed her against him.  “I’m not that strong.”

“
Donovan, please, you don’t understand–”

“
I do,” he cried savagely.  “I won’t lose you, even if that means never truly having you.”  Devouring her mouth in a rough kiss, he groaned and thrust her from him. 

“
Donovan, please!” she cried in return, begging him to stay.  He couldn’t leave her.  “I love you,” she whispered, tears welling over.

His haunted expression smoothed and he too welled up, his amber eyes glistening with unshed tears.  “I know, Beth.  I know you love me.  But you’re not in love with me.  Not like you are with him.”