Untamed Mate (Feral Shifters 2)

Rearing back to attack me.

“Shit!” I roll to the side, slamming into the bar-covered wall right as the shadow’s arm-like tendril stabs into the mattress where I’d been laying only seconds before.

Before the shadow can untangle itself from the blankets, I tuck and roll around it, hitting the floor on my feet. I don’t have much room to move in this tiny cage, but I dance away, putting my back to the bars as I glance wildly around, like a weapon will have magically appeared while I fucking slept.

The only things in this cell beside me and the shadow are the piss bucket and the blanket. I crouch and grab the handle of the bucket, thankful the old lady came back and dumped it after Quinton’s visit earlier. I swing it wide at the shadow as it twists around and darts toward me.

The bucket goes right through it.

Fuck me. God fucking dammit!

Even a weapon can’t help me now. This isn’t my first rodeo with these things, and it appears that just like the last two times, I have no ability to fight back against these formless monsters. The shadow can affect the environment around it, but I can’t even touch it.

“Well, this is lovely,” I grunt, heavy on the sarcasm because it keeps me from freaking out.

I toss the bucket aside, and it clatters loudly over the floor, vanishing beneath the cot.

The shadow’s tenuous arm swipes at my head. I duck quickly and lunge around it as it slams into the bars. This time, though, it anticipates my move. Another tendril sweeps out from its back and punches into the back of my head. The blow is so quick, so vicious, like a striking snake, and I don’t have a prayer of avoiding it.

I sprawl to the floor, barely managing to catch myself on my hands and knees. Sharp pain radiates from all four points of impact, and my limbs tingle painfully.

“Not fair,” I mutter, whipping around and crab-walking away from the advancing beast. I have nowhere to go. The cell is all of eight feet by eight feet, if that. And the damn shadow can hurt me, while I can’t hurt it.

What a fucking one-sided fight.

I roll to avoid another blow from the thing’s dark, shapeless fist, then scramble to my feet using the edge of the cot to right myself. Snagging the corner of the blanket, I yank it off the bed and toss it at the shadow. I don’t expect it to do shit, but I’m running out of damn options here. When it just flutters uselessly to the dirty floor, I let out a frustrated yell and sidestep another blow.

We dance around the tiny cell for several moments—the shadow lunging, me darting, climbing over the bed, climbing the bars, climbing anywhere that might get me a reprieve from the fucking thing. Adrenaline keeps me moving, but I know I can’t keep this up forever.

What happens when I fall? When I stumble and the shadow reaches me before I can right myself? I’m winded already, and can feel my legs slowing, growing heavy from the effort. Blood pumps through my veins and my breaths come faster. I can’t tell if I’m getting in an intense cardio workout or if anxiety is creeping in to choke me.

How can I fight something I can’t even touch? I could shift to wolf form, but it wouldn’t do any fucking good. It would only make the cell seem smaller.

I trip over the blanket wadded up on the floor, catching my bare toes just right on the fabric to send me flailing toward the cot. My hip connects with the thin mattress, and I bounce off it onto the stone floor.

I slam into the floor on my right hip. My head hits the concrete, making a burst of bright sparks dance behind my eyes. Before I can catch a breath, the shadow attacks, and this time, I have nowhere to run.

The tendril hits me on the exact spot where Quinton punched me twice. Agony explodes in my face, and the coppery scent of my blood fills the air as the cut over my eyebrow reopens. I flail my arms at the creature, screaming in a mixture of rage and frustration, but my hands pass right through as if it’s made of nothing at all.

As the shadow rears back for another blow, I turn my head, searching wildly for any option to get me through this. I spent twenty-four hours in this cell thinking it would be Quinton or his pack who finished me off, and now, I’m up against a shadow. The only thing I can’t fight back against.

A shadowy arm smashes into my face again. And again. I roll away, fingers latching onto the grimy floor. I struggle to crawl, still screaming at the top of my lungs without even realizing I’m doing it. My voice is so outside my own senses, it’s as if I’m listening to someone else cry for help.

If I could put some distance between us, maybe I could think straight. Too many blows to the head have made me woozy, and darkness is creeping in at the edges of my vision.

But the fucking thing just crawls with me. Black tendrils begin to wind around my body, snaking around my waist, my neck, my chest. Four tendrils, five tendrils, more fingers and limbs than any human would have, each of them squeezing slowly until I can’t move or breathe.

I gape at the air, mouth opening and closing like a fish as my fingers clawing uselessly at the tendrils wrapped tightly around my neck.

I’m going to die.

And nobody’s coming to save me.