S. Yule - Lycan Vengeance

After Russell, she’d devoted all of her time to getting rid of as many of the lycans as she could. She’d learned lots of tricks along the way—the deer urine to mask her scent was one of the better ones—but she didn’t forget that she’d never be the one with the upper hand in the battle.

Her breath hitched when the lycan she drew down on turned in her direction. Four scars that resembled claw marks ran from his forehead, over his eye, and stopped midway down his cheek. She had been made, and she had to take the shot now if she were to have even a slight chance of coming out of this alive. Her arm quivered from the effort of holding the string taut, and she released her fingers, letting the arrow whistle through the air toward its intended target. Her aim was true, but at the last second, the lycan twisted, and the arrow pierced its chest right beside the heart.

Her heart sank, then pounded furiously. She’d missed, and now she had to run for her life. She burst from the nest of dead branches she’d been using as cover and started in the direction she’d left her truck, when a bloodcurdling scream of rage echoed behind her. By her estimate, she was about four miles in, and the head start she had on the lycan would amount to little once the thing recovered from the shock of being shot and set after her. The adrenaline she’d tried to suppress only moments earlier was now her best friend.

She was in great shape, but as the deep snow and cold air took its toll, her strength waned. She’d been in tighter situations than this, and she’d get through this one—at least she thought she would, until the sound of dead branches crashed behind her as the lycan closed in. The fear that slithered up her spine gave pause to her doubts, making her wonder if she’d come out completely unscathed.

She focused on the line of trees marking her destination, trying hard not to think about the fact that she could practically feel the hot breath of her pursuer on her neck.

Within seconds, her truck came into view through the thick tree line, and relief poured through her, almost there. Maybe she would make it after all, but that thought was crushed, along with her body, when she was tackled from behind. The sheer weight of the beast knocked what little breath she had left from her lungs as she hit the ground hard. She’d assumed one day she’d die by the hands of a lycan. She just hoped that that day wasn’t today.

Knox had been a hunter for far too long to not realize he was being followed again. He’d been tailed for around a month now, but had to admit that whoever his stalker was had a few tricks up his sleeve. He’d gotten close a few times to discovering who hunted him, but he’d always been a second too late to come face-to-face with his pursuer.

While the deer urine had fooled him for about a second, he couldn’t discount the cleverness of the trick, as it would probably work well in masking one’s scent from most lycans, especially the young rogues he helped keep in check. Being one of the few ancients left in a dwindling race, the wool was not so easily pulled over his eyes.

He had killed more rogues in his time than he cared to remember, and hated the impact the loss had on the lycans, but there was no other option for those who refused to reform. The rogues enjoyed appalling and unacceptable behavior, which included killing potential mates. When he ran across a rogue who was willing to reform—no matter how rare the instance—it made all the sacrifices, the pain, the loneliness worth it.

Anything he had to do to help save his race was worth the steep price it cost him, even if each rogue he’d killed who’d refused to obey ancient laws claimed a piece of his soul. He didn’t enjoy executing anyone, even those who deserved it, but it was a necessary job that had to be done. While he knew other lycans, ancient and younger, who were not rogue played a part in the battle to save his species, sometimes he felt as if he were the only one. Now am I being a whiny bitch or what?

Ancient lycan law demanded the protection of all potential mates. Potential mates were becoming a rare find, and it was paramount to the survival of the lycans to protect them. Unfortunately, rogues didn’t have the same views. They thought potential mates were fair game to all lycans, and any of those who carried the main scent who happened into their paths usually ended up getting kidnapped, tortured, or raped, or any combination of all three.

The majority of those who went rogue were young pups who’d been born of ill-treated women and who’d just come into manhood, drunk off their newly heightened senses and power. That was problem number two:

There weren’t enough ancients to keep track of all the new pups born. Thus the pups weren’t taught the importance of potential mates to the lycan population. Although, he doubted that knowledge would be enough to stop all lycans from going rogue.

Some of the ancients had formed a place called Sanctuary in northern Michigan, but he had never visited the place. He preferred to work alone, and had done so most of his life, but Sanctuary was becoming an integral part of the lycans’ existence. He had heard rumors of other states and countries setting up sanctuaries as well.

It would take time to get the reform encampments established and to discreetly get word out of their locations. The past several months, he’d become accustomed to the idea of Sanctuary and was happy there would finally be another way to keep track of rogues who were willing to reform. Up to this point in time, those who hunted the rogues had to rely on their reformants’ word and check on them as often as possible.

This made the hunters probation officers as well, and babysitting took valuable time away from threading out other savable rogues from the hopeless ones.

Sanctuary provided more than a shelter and educational tools for rogues. It provided a necessary lifting of burden off the ancients out in the field. The fact that he no longer had to keep tabs on those who had personally promised him they would change their ways was a huge relief. It had become a nearly impossible task, and had started weighing heavily on him and the other hunters.

A slight thunk and whistle alerted him that trouble was coming, and innate instinct had him jumping to the side. Unfortunately, he hadn’t reacted quick enough to avoid the arrow altogether, as it embedded in his chest just a few inches from his heart. And, thus the third problem with rogues: their careless actions were starting to alert humans to their existence.

He screamed out in fury and gripped the arrow to yank it out. Suddenly, weakness slithered through him.

Only one thing could cause him that kind of sudden weakness. The damned shaft of the arrow was iron, and touching it immediately began draining his strength. Humans figuring out lycans existed was one thing, but if they’d found out that iron was their weakness—he didn’t even want to think about the consequences of that one.

It would take only one human to believe in their existence, one persistent human who could entice others into believing, one human who could gather a group of hunters who could seriously deplete an already endangered species or even perhaps do the unthinkable—wipe the lycans’ existence from the face of the earth.

Although not lethal, the injury the arrow had caused hurt like hell, and the brief contact he’d had with the iron hadn’t helped either. He was pissed and in pain. Pain and pissed never sat well with him, and he pictured snapping the neck of the son of a bitch who had just shot him—the one he was now closing in on. He hadn’t taken the time to shift and heal his wound, refusing to allow any more advantage to the soon-to-be dead man.

He never doubted for a moment that he’d catch his man. Even the hesitation of being shot hadn’t kept him from catching up. But why would a human have taken a shot at him while he’d been in human form? With a silver-tipped arrow nonetheless? How had the man known he was a lycan and not a real human? Because he didn’t believe for a moment it had been a simple case of mistaken identity by a lone hunter. No game hunter he’d known had hunted with iron-shafted arrows tipped with silver. The extra weight of the iron shafts would have taken practice to accurately shoot—and his shooter was a precise shot. If his instincts hadn’t alerted him to the impending danger, the arrow would have gone straight through his heart.

Labored breaths gave proof that the man was tiring, and Knox smiled. Pushing the throbbing pain in his chest out of his mind, he sped up and leaped onto the man’s back. They landed hard in the snow, and he could hear a satisfying whoosh as all the air was knocked from the lungs of his attacker. When he flipped the man over, his eyes widened in shock. This was not a man at all. It was a woman.

A gorgeous woman with full lips and eyes the color of crystalline aqua water stared up at him.

Unfortunately, his surprise at her beauty, and at the fact that she was a woman, gave her all the hesitation she needed. She brought her knee up hard in his groin, and when he groaned, he swore he could feel his nuts lodged just under his tonsils. As he regained his composure and reached for her again, she slid a dagger from her boot and sliced an arc across his chest. Instinctively he reared back.

The action kept the blade from going deep, but not from cutting through his skin like butter.

She raised the dagger for another go at his chest, but he caught her wrist and squeezed until she gasped.

He could break her delicate bones easily, and he’d be a liar if he denied a small part of him didn’t want to do just that. She was determined. He’d give her that. She fought hard to maintain her grip on the hilt, but it took only a few seconds before her fingers went limp under the pressure of his fingers and the blade fell harmlessly into the deep snow beside them.

His body hardened when she squirmed under him, and he tightened his knees around her hips, effectively stilling her. She didn’t have a chance of getting loose unless he let her, and he was sure she knew that by the way her cheeks burned red with anger and her eyes spit daggers at him. He started to wonder why he was having such a strong sexual reaction to her, thinking he’d been too long without a woman if one who’d just nearly castrated him stoked his blood so quickly. A split second later that question was answered for him as two subtle scents—ones previously masked by the deer urine she was drenched in—tickled his nose.

He froze and stared down at her in wonderment. This woman carried the main scent, but she also carried the mated scent—the first of which all of his kind could detect, but the second called only to him. His nostrils flared, and his body tensed in primal need. She was his. After all of those long, lonely years thinking he would never meet her, thinking a rogue would most likely get to her before he ever would, she was here. His mate.

Mine!

His inner wolf became restless, and paced inside him growling, howling to get out, but Knox refused to let him have free rein, knowing he would not be able to control the animal from claiming what was rightfully his.

He would never harm her, never take her against her will. He’d rather die than cause her any pain. He stared at her in awe. He’d never laid eyes on her until this moment, but he already knew she was perfect.

“No!” Her eyes flew wide open, and she tried to buck him off her again with no success. “Kill me, but don’t you dare lay a finger on me, or I swear I’ll rip your heart out.”

“I’m not going to kill you or hurt you.” Her voice—scathing as it was—was like salve to a wound, calming music to his chaotic soul.

“You’re an animal! I know what your kind does. You should be dead right now. Why couldn’t you have stayed still? A monster like you deserves to die.” Her words were laced with venom and hatred.

He laughed, but quickly subdued it when her eyes flared with anger. She’d obviously come in contact with lycans before—rogue lycans by the sound of it. The urge to take her in his arms and make her forget whatever had made her hate his kind nearly made him lose his head and let her go, a mistake that would no doubt get him kneed, or worse, again.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t stand perfectly still so you could slaughter me. The nerve of me.” He teased her, but could tell she didn’t find him amusing in the least.

“Do us both a favor, and let me finish what I started.”