Rejected Mate (Feral Shifters 1)

“I can keep yanking until the headboard collapses if you want,” I say evenly, leaning my entire weight against the ropes. Blood trickles down my wrist. Great, I opened the blister.

Blondie’s nostrils flare, and his gaze flicks to my burned wrist. Scenting my blood. The way his pupils dilate leave no room for interpretation—my blood excites him.

“What happened?” he repeats.

Irritation chases away the small hint of lust I feel and revs up my desire to bash him in the head. I bare my teeth at him. “I don’t even know your name. I’m not gonna tell you shit.”

“Frost,” he says. “What happened?”

“Frost? What kind of name is that?” The words are supposed to come out scornfully. The insult might have fallen better if the sound of his name didn’t send a ripple of heat through me. His deep, raspy voice alone calls up every ounce of desire in my body, but hearing his name only heightens the sensation.

Fucker. I hate it. I hate this entire situation.

Frost repeats his question again. “What happened?”

“You’re a real conversationalist,” I mutter, falling back against the pillows. I glance up at my arm—blood has trickled down my forearm and into the crook of my elbow. Letting out an annoyed sigh, I stare up at the wooden beams. “I was looking for you in the woods where you ran off. I started having this seizure-like pain, and I passed out. You found me. End of story.”

He’s silent for so long that I would think he’d left, except I can still smell him. In the depths of winter, when the temperature’s frigid and the wind is cutting, I love walking into coffee houses. That initial burst of heat and spicy, coffee-scented goodness that rushes out…

That’s what his scent makes me feel. Among other things.

I want to jump out the fucking window. Or kick him in the face. The longer he stands in the doorway, the more the room fills with him.

I lift my head to look at him again, and the bored expression is gone. His brow has smoothed, and a muscle in his temple works as he stares at me.

Thoughtful. Worried, even?

He finally speaks. “You’ve been poisoned.”

Not what I expected.

My eyes widen, and I try to sit up, jerking against my restraints as I snarl, “You poisoned me?”

“No. The shadow poisoned you.” He holds up one hand, and I can just make out the remnants of raw, oozing burns on his palm. “It poisoned me, too.”

Nausea settles in my stomach, and my head whirls. I dig my bare feet into the sheets to push myself back against the headboard. With my arms stretched out to my sides, I feel a little like I’m being crucified, but having the headboard behind me helps steady me.

“Why was it in my room?” I ask. “Why were you in my room?”

“The shadow was seeking me.”

“That answers the first question,” I say with a bit of a growl in my voice. “So you’re just going to ignore my second question. Great. And why the hell was the shadow ‘seeking’ you?”

One corner of Frost’s thick, kissable lips curls up, and his blue eyes begin to gleam. “You chased Kian down last night. If you’re hunting us, is it so surprising to learn that others are too?”

I let my mouth fall open in mock surprise. “Wow. You do speak in full sentences. Look at that.”

The half-smile fades immediately. Apparently, Frost is not amused.

He won’t be amused when I get out of these restraints either.

“Who sent the shadow?” I demand.

Frost’s bright blue eyes darken to an alarming navy blue, and the muscles around his eyes tighten, making him look less like a golden god and more like a psychopath.

Ted Bundy. Called it.

“It was sent by someone who does not like us very much.”