Chapter Five
Laura sniffed the air, ensuring there weren’t others nearby as she waited. She’d shifted a few miles back, placing the offensive clothing she had with her back on her body, almost preferring nudity. After a few miles of galloping wolf speed, with the help of her keen nose, she'd entered the nearest town.
Swansboro, North Carolina.
It was quaint, and few people milled around that early in the morning, to her relief. She’d located a pay phone, and to her luck, some lovely bastard left the change she needed for a call.
Her efforts resulted in her waiting just off a road, forty-two miles from where she made the call. She sat at the foot of a tree, attempting to keep her labored pants under control. She was truly at her limit.
An engine rumbled louder and closer before abruptly going silent. There were no footfalls that followed, but the smell of bergamot and orange preceded the low-pitched whistle. She couldn’t muster the care or energy to reply, so instead rolled herself away from the tree, and out into the open.
“You look worse than shit.”
A tall man, late in his twenties with curtaining sandy-brown hair, approached Laura, his brown eyes sparkling. He was dressed in green scrubs–a career surgeon. He was swoon-worthy by human standards.
And also a Delta of Pack Grayson–the pack that abandoned her; the pack she abandoned.
Michael Chapman.
Laura half growled in response, to which he returned a deeper one. She watched the man, smile plastered in place, lay a bag of medical tools on the ground beside her.
“So,” he whistled, “to what do I owe the pleasure of being called out of office on my lunch break?”
“Me being nice enough to call you out, rather than going in. And you owe me a favor,” she grumbled low and slow, the fatigue and general effort causing her to break out in a light sheen.
Michael’s general carefree attitude was a neatly practiced mask, always analyzing and carefully noting each detail of a situation before responding accordingly. Rarely did it crack. His face morphed to one of concern, his brow knitting, as he fully took in her damaged state.
He was one of the few people she could trust… at least not to hurt her.
Not like the others.
Growing up, he would at least make sure she didn’t go hungry, and often tended to her wounds.
“We should move you, my–”
“No,” Laura interjected, “I’m pretty sure I have a tracker.” His brow raised this time, eyes full of questions, but he nodded in understanding as she held her arm out to be examined.
He pulled a small device out of his bag and moved it purposefully over her arm, roving until he found a spot that caused the device to beep incessantly.
“There’s certainly something that doesn’t belong,” he half muttered.
He retrieved more tools from his bag, laying them neatly on a cloth at his side. Michael took a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured it generously over her arm. She hissed as the liquid seeped into her existing cuts. He raised a devilish piece of work to her skin, making her heart spike when he paused to look at her, the sharp edge a hair’s width away from her skin.
“This is going to hurt a bit,” he warned, waving the tool.
Sweet fucking hell, did it hurt.
She fiddled with the excised piece of metal. Adrenaline absent, it hurt worse than being cleaned through with a bullet, though Michael kindly tended to her shoulder as well. She almost wished she had whatever knock-out concoction they had back at the facility, instead, she nearly bit her tongue off.
A zipper closing distracted her from the pain.
“Do I wanna know what happened?” He leveled his gaze on her, openly analyzing. “Weren’t you in Brazil?” She occasionally mailed newsletters of her digs to Michael.
She looked him up, then down.
She wanted to be honest with him, but with her luck, he’d probably get the pack involved, and that was less appealing than crawling back from where she’d come–plus she probably wouldn’t be left alone. She didn’t even have enough information to fully understand the situation herself.
She shook her head.
“Thanks for the patchwork. I’ll update you later.” He seemed about to argue, deciding to blow air instead.
“Fine, but what are you gonna do now? Walk all the way home? You can barely breathe, let alone stand!” He gestured over her as he spoke. “You don’t have to tough it out on your own, Lars.”
She huffed her annoyance and exasperation.
Michael looked equally fed up as he leaned close to her face, expectantly waiting for her to bring hers near. She closed the distance and swiped noses with him. A rush of energy, distinctively his, entered her, rejuvenating her senses. She felt her healing speed up, even as she continued to shake the build-up of drugs from her system.
Brushing was a way one wolf shifter could pass energy to another. Consisting of a pack’s warriors and healers, Deltas, if designated as a healer, would typically do this as treatment for minor ailments.
Deltas were the best at general energy sharing, second to Alphas. Though there are more intimate methods, nose swipes were the most appropriate, and rarely done outside of family or large celebrations. Michael had done it for her many times over since young.
“Thanks.”
“Just take care of yourself.” He rose from his squat. “ Come on, let’s get you food and send you home.”
“Thank you.”
“Quit thanking me, Pup.” He sighed, extending his palm. She snorted, never understanding why he always called her Pup when they were both twenty-nine.
Laura took his offered hand, wincing in anticipation as she stood. The wound on her shoulder was already closed. She rotated her cuff as she followed him to the road.
“Take it easy, I just bandaged you.”
“Sorry, thought it would help.” She feigned pain. Laura had been away from other shifters so long, she almost forgot she needed to act the role of less than a shifter.
“Drive safe, and don’t call me.” Michael slapped the top of the rental he secured for her, flashing her his wicked grin.
She nodded, giving him a reassuring smile, hoping he didn’t pay attention to the shade of her knuckles as she gripped the steering wheel. She’d relented yesterday at his incessant pestering, allowing him to drive them back to his house in Jacksonville, North Carolina–despite her apprehensions being so near the pack. He’d provided her with a hot shower and clothes his sister had left for visits. He shared a lot about the going ons of the pack too, while they had dinner. She’d felt sufficiently updated by the time he took a second to breathe.
He passed her a wad of cash and a cell phone before stepping back from the sedan.
Laura watched the rearview mirror as a waving Michael bled into the distance. She felt queasy at the thought of going home. Her reclaimed sense of paranoia threatened to drown her. She still didn’t know if her kidnappers truly knew her identity–if they knew where she lived–or just got lucky. It would be best to avoid going back home at all… But she had items that would be better off retrieved sooner rather than later–everything else she could plan to have moved out later.
Get in, get out.
Laura had a lovely drive ahead of her to Virginia Beach.
Just her and the company of her demons.