Wolf Hunt 1: Urban Wolf
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by Marie Treanor
Category: Erotica/Paranormal Erotica/Science Fiction
Description: A man wakes up naked and alone in a city doorway--with no memory of how he got there or who he is. The locals assume he's a drunken pervert and try to drive him away. Only journalist Rose Winter believes he's more than that, but even she isn't prepared for the truth. Following up a story, Rose finds herself hunted through the city at night by a giant wolf. As her wolf story begins to converge with her sexy naked man, her own secret becomes impossible to keep. Loyalty and duty can't prevent these enemies from becoming lovers on the run, but they both know their love is doomed as much by their own nature as by interplanetary politics.
eBook Publisher: Changeling Press LLC, 2009 2009
eBookwise Release Date: October 2009
15 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [103 KB]
Reading time: 61-86 min.
"This is a science fiction spin on a werewolf story, and it mixes suspense and a dash of political conspiracy with a sensual love story to create a unique and intriguing reading experience. I am definitely looking forward to reading the future stories in the Wolf Hunt series to see what Ms. Treanor has in store for us."--BD Whitney, Book Wenches
Cold. So cold that his violent shivering hurt his teeth. Wetness pounded into his skin like tiny bullets, splashing on his knees, his face, running all over his body. The smell of people filled his nostrils, overwhelming the nearby cooking scents that turned his stomach. All around him was noise--people shouting, loud, crashing footsteps, the whoosh of cars and aircraft.
I'm outside, in the city.
What the hell am I doing sleeping outside in the city?
"Is he dead?" asked a nearby voice.
"Of course he's not dead! His teeth are chattering, for God's sake! Hey, wake up, you piss-head!"
He caught a whiff of bacon mixed with aggression. Then a rough hand seized his shoulder, and he reacted without thought, leaping to his feet and drawing back his fist.
Rain dripped off his hair into his eyes. Between the droplets, he stared at an angry man backing away from him.
"Jesus Christ," the man said. "You're disgusting."
Someone giggled--a young woman in impossibly high heels, and lipstick of a matching shade of scarlet. She was staring at the region just below his middle. So was the friend who clutched her arm.
"Wow," said the second woman, as her friend dragged her off, both of them cackling and whispering.
"Get yourself off the street, you drunken perv!" called an older woman's voice.
The man who'd touched him added threateningly, "Be quick about it, piss-head!" The man's gaze dropped as well, and this time, he looked too.
He was stark naked, his tackle on show for anyone who cared to look. No wonder he was cold. "Off the street" seemed suddenly very sensible advice. Only ... where the fuck was he?
With quick, darting glances, he discovered he stood in a doorway, in a narrow city street of old and crumbling tenement buildings. Even the road needed to be repaired. It was little more than rubble in places. Not a good part of town to be alone--dark, neglected, far from the more acceptable view of wide streets and tall, shiny glass buildings with aircraft darting between. Worse, he faced a group of shocked, angry citizens. If he hadn't been so cold, he'd have blushed.
Would I? Do I blush?
Desperately, he grasped for self-knowledge, a reason for being here, and found nothing. Panic stung him into action, any action. Reaching behind him, he searched for a way out and to his relief discovered a door handle. It gave easily, but before he could dive inside, a man shouted, "Hey, Art! He's breaking in to your house!"
And suddenly, they were advancing on him, their shocked faces turned mean and aggressive.
"Don't let him get in!" someone shouted.
The man who'd shaken his shoulder yelled furiously. "Get out of my house, piss-head!"
Piss-head? Is that all it is? Am I drunk? Must have been one hell of a night...
Certainly it would explain the faint haze of unreality through which he appeared to be regarding the world. Something crashed into his chest, hard and painful, and fell onto the step beside him. A stone from among the road rubble.
"Get away from there!" snarled the house-owner--Art?
Another stone flew at him and he caught it deftly in his left hand Weighing it, he took a step forward.
Amid a flurry of gasps and warnings and swearing, the crowd fell back. Another couple of stones hit his legs, but he kept moving, determined to plough his way through them and take the road he chose for himself, which was...
He ducked to avoid another flying stone, deflected one with his forearm, which began to bleed. But he'd seen who threw that one--Art--and locked eyes with him. The man looked terrified.
"Hey, what's going on?"
The female voice seemed to cut through his skin. Clear, brisk, curious, with a warm pitch that spoke straight to his cock. Or would have, had that organ not been so shrivelled with rain and cold. A ripple moved through the hostile crowd. Voices muttered and he had to strain to catch the words.
"I know her. I'm sure I do."
"Who is she?"
"She's that girl on the newscreens. Shit, she's probably got a camera. I'm off..."
Threatening arms in the crowd lowered. Stones dropped casually on the ground with a scattering of dull thuds and several people drifted away.
A young woman emerged from the dispersing crowd, pushing down a rain hood to reveal luxuriant long hair of a bright and rare shade of amber, falling around a face that he supposed was beautiful. Certainly, her bone structure was exquisite, her lips full and tempting, her eyes large and brown...
But it wasn't her beauty or her melting eyes that truly caught his attention. It was her smell. Frowning, he tried to place it. Did he know her? Surely that scent was familiar ... Something about it filled his mind with visions of naked, sweating bodies, mainly his own and hers.
She came to an abrupt halt and stared at him. Oh yes, she was highly fuckable, and yet, stronger than his upsurge of unexpected and inconvenient lust was the desire to put his hands around her elegant, swan-like neck and strangle her.
He flexed his fingers.
The older woman was explaining. "Art found him asleep in his doorway when he came home from night shift. Must be a drunk or a down-and-out, some kind of pervert too. Look at him!"
After her first flickering glance, the newcomer seemed to be rather determinedly focusing on his face. "He must be freezing," she said unexpectedly. In an instant, she'd stripped off her raincoat, revealing an orange bodysuit that seemed to match her hair, and bright, chunky beads around her throat. She advanced upon him.
He fell back, giving ground before her as he hadn't before the stone-throwing mob.
She paused. "I won't hurt you. What's your name?"
His throat closed up. Panic threatened to resurface. Her eyes searched his. Every hair on his body stood up in alarm. Though he'd no idea who she was, either, his every instinct was against trusting her.
"Where does he live?" she flung over her shoulder.
Silence and a few shrugs. "Why's he scared of her?" someone muttered.
Scared? Was he? Forcing himself, he stayed still when she took another step nearer to him. Maybe. But it felt like a powerful tug of lust. Mixed with an equally strong urge to exterminate her.
"He's not scared of her," answered another voice with a definite snigger. "He likes her."
She heard them. He could see it in the color soaring into her neck and face. He even admired the way she deliberately didn't so much as glance at his growing cock. And yet it didn't embarrass him. Perhaps he was an exhibitionist after all.
Reaching up, she placed the raincoat around his shoulders, drawing the two sides together across his chest. Her fingers brushed his naked skin and even through his numbing cold, a jolt of electricity caught at his breath. Her eyes flew up to his.
False eyes. Beautiful eyes, but false, misleading, never to be trusted. But at least the coat felt good, warming.
"Where do you live? Do you want someone to take you there?" Curiously, there seemed to be genuine compassion in her clear, musical voice. He shivered.
"Doesn't he speak?" she asked the crowd.
"Never heard him speak," said Art. "Guess his type don't feel the need."
"Have you called the police?"
Art's gaze slid away. "We don't like the police round here. The more distant they are, the safer we feel."
"Well. You don't like the police and you don't like naked men cluttering up your doorways. What are you planning to do about him? Besides throwing stones?"
Interestingly, her disapproval got to them. Art actually shuffled his feet. "Nothing," he snarled. "So long as he buggers off and doesn't come back! I've never seen him before in my life and I never want to again either!"
"He's not from round here," someone else agreed.
"I've never seen him before either."
On the whole, that was rather a relief, and yet he'd no idea where to go, what to do if they weren't going to make him fight...
"I have," said a reluctant voice, and he jerked up his head to see a youngish man in labouring clothes, whose eyes slid away as soon as their gazes connected.
"I think he's ill. A couple of people carried him into the flat below mine yesterday. Never saw him before that ... it's been empty for weeks."
"Was he dressed then?" Art mocked.
"Show us," the woman said.
The labourer looked hunted. "I'm already late for work."
"Then just tell me the address!"
"No way! I don't know you from Adam! Who are you, anyway?"
"Rose Winter," the girl said. "I'm a reporter with the iGazette." She smiled. It didn't reach her beautiful, false eyes. "If there's a story in this, you'll get your names and photos on all the newscreens."
"No way," the labourer exclaimed in clear alarm.
"Well ... The iGazette pays."
Something passed hastily from her hand to the labourer's. "Come on," he muttered, and began to slouch off down the street.