[BOOK ONE] When hunter-gatherer Adele Shepherd comes across an injured werewolf in the woods, it's up to her to take him in and save his life: in a remote town dedicated to killing the creatures, she's the only one left who wants to help no matter t...
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THE HUM OF the radio filled the kitchen, hardly a crackle interrupting the songs once Ainslie had jammed a fork into the aerial and balanced it against the fridge. The latest hits played on a loop, interspersed with joyous Christmas tunes, each song far too banal and upbeat for the gravity of the situation. The perky commentary that broke up the music grated on Adele's nerves but she didn't want to turn it off: it had become something of a comfort, the most meagre distraction from the horrors that flung themselves against her brain.
The song changed, morphing from the dulcet tones of Nat King Cole to a peppy cover of Jingle Bell Rock that startled Adele. Reed winced, his shoulders tensing when she poked her needle a little too deep into the gash across his chest. She gasped and pulled away from him.
"Sorry," she said with an apologetic grimace, placing her hand over his now warm chest to pinch together the edges of a jagged cut. Most of his injuries were minor, scrapes and grazes that would scab over, but there were a few that would need stitches and Adele knelt over him with her supplies laid out beside her like a back-alley surgeon.
"S'ok," he said, though the word was as tight as the grimace on his face. He bunched the blankets in one fist, the other gripping Ainslie's hand. She sat beside him, both of her hands clasped around his, and she couldn't shake the smile that had blossomed on her lips from the moment Reed had spoken.
His words hadn't lasted long: he was exhausted, his body in shock and his mind even more so, and for a few hours after the successful rescue, the rest of his pack had taken it in turn to check on him as he rested. Now, long after the sun had set, he was awake and well enough to handle a little minor surgery. He wasn't yet well enough to handle the mountain of words that had yet to be spoken: there was too much to be said, far too much to dump on him so soon after saving his life.
"You're going to be just fine," Adele said, bending over to work carefully to pierce the curved needle through his skin. The laceration wasn't too deep but it was long, a nine-inch diagonal slash across his ribs, and Adele focused on breathing steadily as she tied a knot in the twenty-sixth interrupted suture. He would need at least forty, but she could work as swiftly as she could cautiously.
