Instinct
Prologue
Amanda Morrison groaned, as consciousness returned.
Sitting up, she put a hand to the back of her head, grimacing at the sticky feeling of blood. She'd been out jogging in the park, and had fallen. No, she'd been pushed, she suddenly realized. Turning abruptly so she was poised on her toes, fingertips to the ground, she fought off a wave of concussion induced nausea to look around for her attacker.
From the underbrush near the path, a large black dog appeared. Its teeth were bared, tongue licking in and out between them, a growl rumbling in its chest.
As it stepped slowly closer, Amanda realized it wasn't a dog at all. This part of Nevada hasn't seen a wolf in decades, was what her confused mind grasped onto, like a lifeline, trying to make sense of what was happening. Surely she wasn't nose to snout with a wolf!
She was still poised to spring, but she knew there was no way she could outrun the monster in front of her.
The wolf regarded her with cold amber eyes, as it took another step toward her.
With a forward lunge, the wolf had pushed Amanda onto her butt, and still he kept pushing her.
Only now it wasn't a wolf above her, but a man. A naked man, powerful muscles rippling under tanned skin.
A shout of fright tried to escape her lips, but his left hand was suddenly clamped over her mouth. His right was ripping her clothing away.
Understanding blossomed in her dazed mind. He was going to rape her. Then he would kill her. She had seen him, seen what he could do. He wouldn't let her live.
Fighting back, she bit his fingers, pummeled his sides and back, scratched him, and tried to kick him. It was no use. He was too strong. All her efforts gained her was a grunt from him.
After his release, still buried to the hilt inside of her, he shifted.
The scream died to a gurgle as his lupine teeth tore through the tender muscles and veins of her throat.
She bled out in seconds.
Brandon Parsons, still in wolf form, padded back into the brush to where he'd left his clothing. After dressing, he casually made his way back to the parking lot, where his car waited.
70 miles away.
The pop and crackle of the campfire was a merry sight in the small clearing where Ian Patrick and his hunting buddy, Evan Taylor, had set up their tent.
"I can't believe we didn't see a single deer today!" Ian sighed in disgust, as he speared a hotdog on the cooking stake he held.
Eyeing the darkness of the surrounding forest wearily, Even felt beside him for his rifle. "I can't shake the feeling there's something out there."
"You watch too many movies, Evan," Ian griped at his friend. "There's nothing out there. Nothing that would mess with a couple of humans, that is."
The hairs on the back of Ian's neck stood up as the first distant howl reached them.
It was followed almost immediately by another, then two more.
The two men looked at each other.
"But there haven't been wolves in Nevada in decades," Ian said.
"I counted at least ten," Evan said at almost the same time.