Hannah Pole - Silence of the Wolves

He came to a halt in a small clearing and what lay on the ground in front of him was enough to make him want to scream. Tamriel lay face down on the ground, covered in blood, a hefty fallen branch of a dead tree sticking out of her back.

Leyth bolted forward, trying to assess the damage. Crap. Her foot was caught in some wire mesh, designed to trap foxes and rabbits. She’d obviously fallen hard after getting her foot caught in that trap, her ankle was twisted and broken and, by the looks of it, she’d fallen on a broken tree branch. The thing had pierced straight through her stomach and had come out the other side.

‘Tamriel!’ he whispered, crouching next to her. She couldn’t have died. She just couldn’t. Not now. He carefully brushed aside her beautiful black hair, and felt the smooth skin on her neck for a pulse.

For a few painstaking moments, he found nothing. But when the small beat touched his fingertips, his heart leapt. She was alive, just.

Scanning his surroundings, Leyth tried desperately to work out what to do. Her fragile figure was broken and bleeding, the blood pulsing out and forming a shimmering pool on the floor.

He couldn’t leave her here, and he couldn’t call an ambulance. How would it look; him being naked next to an injured woman? And what would they think when she woke up screaming that a wolf who had turned into a man was chasing her? Shit.

He wished with all his might that he had his jacket on him, then he could radio through to the mansion and call for help. He looked up at the sky; by his estimate it was about 7 p.m., the two of them had been darting through the woods all day, and now the sun was finally beginning to sink beneath the horizon. He didn’t really have much of a choice.

Gritting his teeth, Leyth slowly bent down to assess Tamriel’s wound. It was bad. Really bad.

He moved over to her ankle, releasing it from the wire trap and bending the metal beyond repair. Maker knew he hated those cruel things.

He gently scooped Tamriel into his arms. The branch came with her, refusing to slide out of her stomach and, frankly, that was possibly the best thing. If he took it out, she might bleed out.

With urgency heating his veins, Leyth carefully turned her body over, cradling her against his chest like a child. Her skin was so damn pale; she was losing blood fast. Once he was sure she was still breathing and he had a good grip on her, he used his fingers to feel for the all-too-familiar tension of the shadows; he would need as much darkness as he could get to try and take them to somewhere safe unnoticed. He was, after all, a fully naked man carrying a bleeding, unconscious woman with a goddamn tree sticking out of her gut.

Tugging the darkness of the early evening around him, he bolted out of the woodland as far and as fast as he damn well could. His leg roared in agony, his feet felt as though they had been skinned alive, but he didn’t care. He needed to get Tamriel to safety, and at this moment nothing else mattered.

Finally, after what felt like hours of running, Leyth broke free of the woodland and bolted through the fields at its edge, launching himself over the fence at the bottom in one hit. The cool pavement that lined the streets was a godsend for his feet, but he didn’t slow down, just kept going.

He shot past a group of teens that were leaning against the wall lining one side of the street. That earned him a few confused curses but, hell, he ran fast. By the time they’d realised he was there, he was gone again, and thankfully the winter evening darkness hid him, mostly. The shadows cloaking him in a layer of darkness would on a normal night make him nigh invisible, but now? Injured, with Tamriel in his arms? It just made him harder to spot.

He considered taking her to the mansion; the clinic would surely be the best place for her to be treated, but he couldn’t risk it. Hell, she was bleeding out; his chest and arms were covered in her blood, her skin growing ever colder. Shit. No, he didn’t have time.

So he went for his next best option, bolting through the streets of Folkestone until he came to her building. He didn’t bother trying to find her keys as he reached it, just slammed a shoulder into the door of the building and roared up the stairs to her flat. Shoving her door open with all his might, he thundered into her small living room, sweat dripping from his brow, his heart thumping. He carefully carried her to her overstuffed sofa and gingerly lay her on her side. Even more blood welled out of the wound, rapidly soaking the couch with red. Shit.

Panic practically overwhelmed him as he darted over to the broken door and slammed the now-rickety wood shut. He grabbed her house phone, hating the fact that her blood had covered his hands and that, as a result, everything he touched was left with smeared fingerprints.

Dialling Dax, the line connected almost instantly.

‘White Wolves Inc.,’ the guy drawled.

‘Dax, it’s Leyth. Get Doc down to Tamriel’s apartment ASAP. It’s registered on the pack’s database. She’s badly injured.’

‘What happened?’

‘No time, get him here. Now, Dax ,’ Leyth barked.

‘He’s on his way. ETA, ten minutes.’

Leyth slammed the receiver down and darted back to Tamriel. Her skin was so pale she looked like a ghost, and blood was still flowing from her gut, albeit more slowly. He checked her pulse again, praying it was still steady. It was weak. Too weak. He launched himself into her bedroom, pulling apart her wardrobe and drawers until he found the pile of blankets he was looking for, and rushed back into the living room to press one of the blankets against her gaping wound and cover her cold body with the other.

He was such a damn idiot. This was his fault. This was all his fault.

Tamriel awoke with a start. What the hell had happened to her? She was in so much pain. It felt as though she’d been ripped apart. Inhaling as deeply as she could, and with immense difficulty, she picked through the scents surrounding her. She was definitely in her apartment; it smelt so familiar, yet amongst the usual scents of her living room she found the scent of man. Dark and musky. The scent she recognised right through to her core. It was the very same scent of that wolf.

He must be here.

The mad man who had chased her through the woods was in her apartment.

And she was injured. Shit.

I’m a werewolf. And so are you. The words thundered through her mind once again and her entire body began to tremble with the need to run, as far and as fast as she could. There was a madman in her house who had changed from a genuine wolf into a man before her very eyes. He was in her house and she couldn’t move. Panic thrashed its way through her, making her shake uncontrollably; her breath was coming out short and sharp. The images of that wolf, then that man were filling her mind, but she shoved them away.

Stop it, Tamriel! she told herself. It can’t have been real. It just can’t be. And if you’re going to get out of this situation alive, you need to get a goddamn grip and work out what’s going on and how you’re going to escape.

With fear wrapping its way around her, and her commonsense battling to keep control, she just kept telling herself over and over, It can’t be real . But somewhere, deep down in her heart, those words rang true; she’d always been different after all. But first she needed to work out what the hell was happening to her, and how on earth she was going to get out of this godforsaken situation.

Slowly opening an eyelid, she scanned the room. It was indeed her own living room; she was lying on her own sofa, covered in blankets. At the foot of the sofa, with his head down and his eyes shut was that man, the one with the black hair. He was stunning.