Bayou Wolf

“Came to see if you needed any help.”

Annie handed him a pair of kitchen gloves. “You can carry in this casserole dish if you’d like.”

The sight of the tall, handsome lumberjack wearing kitchen gloves made Tallulah want to giggle. No, take that back. It was adorable. Melt-your-heart kind of cute. She grabbed the basket of rolls and followed him back to the dining room.

The rest of dinner proceeded smoothly and they left the cabin after another hour or so of après-dinner drinks and talking.

The warm glow on the drive home wasn’t just from partaking of Tombi’s excellent whiskey. The blond giant driving beside her had much to do with her good humor. She glanced at him, suddenly shy. “Glad we could set aside our differences for the evening.”

He laid a hand on her left thigh. “I have high hopes for us.”

She eyed his hand suspiciously. If Payton had high hopes about sleeping with her on a first date, he could think again.

At her cabin, he hurried to open her car door and escorted her to the front door.

The awkward moment had arrived. “Would you like to come in for coffee?”

He leaned an arm against the door and stared at her, his gray eyes so dark that the glints of blue in them were the subtle hue of an oiled, polished handgun. “Better not,” he said gruffly. “You’re much too tempting.”

“I am?” Her voice was a whisper in the breeze.

“Very much so. First dates, I don’t believe in anything more physical than a kiss.”

She laughed.

“I’m serious.”

Tallulah cocked her head to the side and studied his face. Yes, he meant what he’d said. She found it oddly endearing. Old-fashioned, chivalrous and sexy as all get-out. She stuck out a hand. “If you’d like we can just shake hands and call it a night.”

“Not on your life.”

He bent down and claimed her mouth, his tongue dancing with hers until she felt weak-kneed and fevered, never wanting it to end.

He drew back and then rested his forehead on hers. “I better go, Lulu.”

“Okay,” she agreed, still in a haze. She inserted the key into the lock opened the door and then swiftly turned back to him. “What did you call me?

“Lulu. Tallulah is a mouthful.”

She frowned. “I don’t like it. It sounds...undignified.”

“It’s adorable. It suits you.”

“Humph.” She shut the door and went to the window, watching as Payton drove off. The man could make her go from joy to irritation in two seconds. And passion? It always seemed to shimmer between them like a promise.

* * *

He began his slow descent to a night of freedom—no small feat considering that it was under the noses of over a dozen pack members. Even sleeping, their heightened senses were sensitive to noise. Ever so slowly, he climbed out of bed and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, down the hall and stairs and through the den. At the back door he paused for several minutes, ears alert for the slightest stirring of movement.

They would never understand.

The blood thirst churned his gut and would not be sated, no matter how hard he tried.

Satisfied that the rest of the pack was still asleep, he turned the doorknob with painstaking carefulness. He briefly considered shifting and using the doggie door, but it had an annoying flap that was surprisingly noisy. Carefully, he slipped into the dark cover of night. Even then, he had to exercise extreme caution. He scurried to the hedges at the side of the house and shape-shifted. Bone and sinew twisted and transformed skin to fur. Two legs multiplied to four and his large paws padded on the soil. Belly close to the ground, he crept to the middle of the cotton field, just in case someone had wakened and chanced to look out a window.

His heart beat more rapidly, pulsing with the conflicting emotions of excitement and revulsion. And then he was free—racing into the woods, tongue panting, senses alive with the smell and sounds of the night.

It’ll be okay. I’ll find some small animal again. I can control the blood hunger.

Alabama was a new start. Never again would he kill a human. It was too dangerous for him and for the whole pack. If they ever caught on to his secret, his life would be over. From here on out, he’d content his bloodlust by feasting on small animals.

And so, once more, he was on the hunt.

He sniffed and tracked a scent, only to bungle the catch, as several hares took off when he came within a few feet of them. A lone wolf on the prowl was not the natural way of the hunt. They were pack animals for a reason, working together with patience and intelligence to track prey and target the weakest animal in a group.

He’d been outside for a good while now. Every minute he was out alone, he risked the others realizing his secret. But he couldn’t go back without something to ease the stomach cramps caused by a lack of blood and flesh. He continued hunting, close to the cotton field, reduced to rumbling his snout through leaves to rouse field mice.

Not how he’d imagined his future. But to admit to the pack that he’d been infected by the fever was unthinkable. They’d haul him away to that so-called rehabilitation compound in the barren desert, although—to his knowledge—no wolf had ever been cured. It would be a fenced-in existence with constant surveillance. A werewolf prison where all were condemned to the equivalent of a life-without-parole sentence.

He’d rather die.

Like a dog with a prize buried bone, he circled around to the outdoor memorial decorated with dream catchers. The feathers and ribbons fluttered like agitated ghosts. Just as well the bitch wasn’t present. His chest still smarted from the rocks she’d flung. He’d been lucky not to suffer a serious injury.

A rustling emerged at the edge of the field, to his left. His ears twitched and his belly rumbled. This sounded like a large, clumsy animal. His mouth salivated at the faint whiff of human.

Torture—like a glass of cold water waved in front of a man dying of thirst. He hesitated. No harm in going to take a look. It could be one of the other pack members had also violated the new rule of no roaming alone in the woods. He crept toward the noise and the smell.

A gray-haired man with a long beard tossed dried corn kernels from a burlap sack. A hunter illegally enticing deer.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan.

One moment he was an observer, and the next, he was flying down the field and taking a running leap at the old man. Teeth ripped into flesh, tearing open the jugular vein at the man’s neck. Warm blood oozed down his throat as he greedily swallowed it. He was dizzy with elation and the hunger in his belly ceased its relentless gnaw.

It was done.

He sat back on his haunches, full and content. Until he observed the dead man, broken and bleeding, his knapsack of corn spilled into the soil like gold nuggets.

Not again. What have I done?

He whimpered and backed away. When this body was discovered, the questions and accusations would begin anew. Disgust roiled in his gut. He hated himself, hated what he had become.

He slunk back to the farmhouse and briefly considered confessing to the pack. That was one way out of this hell his life had become over the last three years.

But shame and fear overcame good intentions. He couldn’t live like a caged animal.

There would be no repeat offense, he vowed. Somehow, he would learn to control the lust for human blood.

Chapter 4 (#uc0b8ef2a-0bb7-5199-8460-a997e0596782)