N. Walters: Finding Chrissten

The footsteps faded and she gave a sigh of relief and closed her eyes, trying to escape the sense of hopelessness permeating her.

Her brother, her twin, was searching for her. She’d caught Quinn’s scent the last time they’d moved her. She’d been so close to freedom. Bethany, the other half-breed female who’d been her cellmate for several weeks, had escaped. Chrissten just wished she’d been able to go with her.

Now she didn’t know where she was or even if she was still in the same city. Quinn wouldn’t give up his search, but Chrissten was afraid it was too late for her. She might never get beyond these walls. There was a very good possibility she would die here.

She eased back down onto the unforgiving floor and lay there, unable to summon up enough strength to even care. Her mind drifted back to the day her brother had almost found her. There’d been another scent in the air. This one darker. Enticing.

She sniffed, trying to remember it. But it was nothing more than a dream.

A single tear rolled down her cheekbone.

Chrissten closed her eyes and let the lethargy take her into darkness.

Hank Brewer lay with his hands stacked behind his head, staring at the plaster ceiling. The sounds of the city drifted in through the window. Chicago never slept. There was always traffic and people, sirens and horns. He’d gotten used to it, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

He’d come a long way from the Iowa farm where he’d grown up. He’d been a foster kid and had been treated well enough by the family that had taken him in. He’d had plenty of food to eat and clean clothes to wear. His days had been filled with school and chores. But he’d never felt as though he fit in and had lit out on his own when he was only sixteen. He’d spent two years on the streets before joining the army in the hope it would give his life some direction, some meaning.

The discipline and the camaraderie had helped, for a time. But he’d gotten out after six years and three tours of Iraq.

“Fuck.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and tucked those memories in the steel vault at the back of his mind. Even though it had been almost six years, he didn’t want to think back to those days—the god-awful heat, the choking dust, the icy edge of fear that never left, the echoes of explosions and the screams of death. Those days were behind him, but he was still at war. Just a different kind.

Hank rolled out of bed and paced to the window. He was naked, but he didn’t feel the cold seeping up from the floorboards.

He was a werewolf. Well, a half-breed one. It was still strange to accept, to believe, even after all these years. He’d thought he was going crazy for a while, delusions brought on by post-traumatic-stress disorder. He’d been living alone, wandering the streets most days searching for some kind of peace when Meredith had found him.

One corner of his mouth kicked up in a brief smile. Meredith Cross, Meredith Striker now, he corrected himself. He’d been sitting in one of the city parks by himself, a brooding, dangerous man. She’d walked past him, stopped and sniffed the air.

He’d thought she was nuts when she turned around, came back and sat down next to him. Then she’d asked him his name. Before he’d known it, he was spilling his guts to her, telling her about his delusions, his fears he was losing his mind. After all, what man believes he can morph into a wolf whenever he wants to?

Only thing was, Meredith hadn’t laughed at him, hadn’t thought he was crazy. In a matter-of-fact way, she’d explained to him what he was. A half-breed werewolf. He’d thought she was the one who was nuts.

Hank shook his head as he watched a garbage truck rumble down the street, belching out exhaust as it went. Even from this distance his preternatural sense of smell picked up the stench of the garbage mingled with the odor of gasoline. Not pleasant. He closed the window he’d left cracked an inch last night, shutting out some of the noise and smells.

He rested his hands against the window frame and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Meredith had been persistent and somehow had convinced him to go home with her to the bar she owned in Wicker Park—Haven. The name was apt. It had become that to him and more. That had been a little more than five years ago. He’d never left. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her or the family he’d found here at Haven.

He hadn’t been crazy at all. What he’d been was a half-breed werewolf who had no idea about his heritage. But he knew now and he embraced it.

A noise alerted him to the fact he was no longer the only one awake on this floor. He cocked his head to one side and listened, allowing his enhanced hearing to filter through the sounds around him. Kevin was still sleeping on the sofa in the living room. No, the noise was coming from the apartment down the hall.

They were all on alert since Bethany Morris had come to them with her claims of knowing where to find Quinn Lawton’s missing sister. Bethany had stayed and she and Quinn had been drawn to one another. It was great to have a newly mated pair in their small pack, but with it had come a heap of trouble. That was okay. They were good at handling trouble.

Knowing he was done with sleep for the night, Hank padded to his closet and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He might as well start his day. There would be no more rest for him.

They’d been so close to finding Quinn’s sister. He glanced at the two blankets folded at the bottom of his bed. A slightly dirty pillow sat next to it.

Unable to stop himself, he went to them. He picked up one of the blankets first and inhaled deeply. Her scent was fresh and he could almost feel her warmth.

Chrissten. She smelled like a fresh summer day, like promises in the dark of the night. It was overlaid with a much deeper, musky scent. Male.

Hank growled, dropped the blanket and picked up the pillow instead. Her scent was fainter here, but it wasn’t tainted by the male’s smell. He’d found it when they’d stormed one of the places where she’d been held. They’d been too late to rescue her as her captors had already moved her. But Hank had taken the pillow.

He knew she’d been a captive for more than a year. Knew she’d been taken against her will, mated to a male not of her choosing.

That didn’t sit well with him. Especially since he wanted her for himself.

He breathed in her lovely scent once more and then carefully placed the pillow back in its place.

Her scent haunted his nights and filled his days. They would keep looking until they found her, dead or alive. He’d find her if it was the last thing he ever did. And then he’d kill the bastards who had taken her.

He flexed his hands, fisting them at his sides. His breathing got deeper and his wolf pushed to get out, forcing him to control the other side of his nature. Oh yeah, he’d find her. It didn’t matter that she was mated to another male. He didn’t care. Rescuing Chrissten had become an obsession for him. It was his mission and he would not fail.

The focus helped ease the restlessness that had been plaguing him lately. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He hadn’t felt this way in years. Maybe it was all the upheaval in the pack. In the last six months or so, things had changed dramatically. Meredith had taken a mate, they’d met an entire pack of werewolves, purebloods who didn’t want to kill them—that was certainly a twist—and Quinn had come to them, bringing his problems with him.

He rolled his shoulders. Whatever happened, he would protect his pack. They were his family, the only real one he’d ever known. He would allow nothing or no one to hurt them.

After he pulled on his socks and sneakers, he made the bed. The discipline the army had drilled into him was too ingrained to ignore. His room was neat, his belongings sparse and his life simple. Just the way he liked it.