Jaylon.
As soon as her mind turned to him, the usual sensation of all consuming lust crashed into her, this time mingled with confusion and what? Tenderness? He’d done a thoughtful thing for her. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was Jaylon was behind creating the target area for her. It must have taken him hours, in the dead of night, to get it just right. Was he trying to redeem himself? Above and beyond most certainly. Suddenly, her anger at his thoughtless words the night before seemed like an overly dramatic reaction. Maybe she’d been too quick to react. Maybe he was just used to dealing with women like the ones she’d encountered on her way into the mansion’s property. Whatever the case, she’d have to thank him—keep things professional for sure, but at least let him know how much she appreciated what he’d done for her.
She could think of various ways she’d really like to thank him. With her hands, her mouth, her tongue…her cheeks burned just as fiercely as her lust and she fought to push them back. Keep things professional. Easy. She groaned as she pulled another arrow free and slid in into her hip holstered quiver, determined to get her shit together. This was a job, one that she needed not only as a distraction from the shitty turn of events in her life, but also as a new start. Jaylon was not part of that plan. Not in a romantic or recreational sense at all.
Right. That was about as believable as the notion that the Hunters would suddenly realize their mistake and come to claim her. In other words: not believable at all.
She moved to the last targets, the ones rigged high up in the trees. She’d been so thrilled at the moving targets that she hadn’t really given much thought to retrieving the embedded shafts.
She sighed, trailing her gaze along the rope and following it from the branch it rested on, down the trunk of the tree to… “Ah! I see.” The rope looped around a notch carved in the bark. She lifted the rope, feeling the weight of the target in her hands as it slowly started to descend. Clever. The rigged target was innovative, and again, showed a lot of effort.
She lowered the target to eye level, then retrieved her arrows. She reset it then moved to the next one. Within minutes, she had gathered all her arrows with the exception of the one she’d misfired, which was now somewhere in the forest beyond.
She turned to walk back to the house, bow in hand, quiver full, when she felt prickling on the back of her neck—that eerie gut instinct that let her know she was not alone. She paused in stride, grip tightening on her bow, hand reaching for an arrow, eyes tracking from tree to tree.
A branch snapped and she spun, bow armed, arrow nocked. A flash of activity, something dark in her periphery. She spun again, aiming for a target that was moving too fast for her to track.
A rustle of leaves, another crack. She turned again, taking two steps back, fingers twitching, ready to fire. And there it was. Yellow eyes, brown fur. A wolf in the bush, staring at her. Possibly the same one that had attacked the big white weeks earlier. Werewolf or wolf? Something was wrong with her senses, which were normally in tune when it came to differentiating between the two. This time the fog was back, hanging over her like it had in the mansion, clouding her judgment, making her doubt. The wolf lowered its muzzle to its paws and continued to stare. Locked on its eyes, Aubrey felt her arm loosen of its own volition, her finger let go of the tension, the arrow fell from its perch, useless.
Her heart hammered, her breath coming in short pants. She was frightened, and intrigued. The wolf rose, stalked out of the bush. It was huge. Warning bells rang in Aubrey’s head and yet her arms grew limp, unable to harness the power in her hands, her bow effectively neutralized by some overwhelming compulsion she could not understand.
I am going to die. She dropped to her knees, her legs no longer able to hold her up. She felt like she was sinking into the forest floor. Submission. The wolf moved within a foot of her, staring down, its gaze mesmerizing, its breath hot against her cheeks.
Tears burned her eyes. Fear slipping away, overwhelmed suddenly by this need to be consumed by the wolf. To feel his fur. To run her fingers along his snout. To be pierced by his fangs. This was what death looked like for her.
A faint noise penetrated her thoughts. A howl. Mournful. The wolf jerked its yellow gaze to the left, moved its massive head as a second howl, louder, echoed around them. It looked back at her, licked its snout, then bolted away, leaving her to crumple to the ground with relief and something that felt like regret. Not for her inaction, not for her impotence, but because she hadn’t touched the magnificent beast.