Chapter 1
On most mornings after her chemo treatment, Cynthia woke up at home with a mouth scratchy like cotton and a hammer-struck headache.
This morning, however, her eyes shot open, and she sat up alert. Something was wrong. Darkness filled the bedroom’s corners. Only the light coming in from under the single doorway to her left cast a glow along the floor. Post-chemo, her room was usually pitch-black. Light-sensitive migraines were fairly common for her.
The blankets, which should’ve been smooth cotton, were stiff. Instead of refreshing, cool air from a humidifier, the air was dry and warm, with the subtle scent of white pines and fir trees, almost as if she were in a cabin.
Why wasn’t she in her room? She would beat the hell out of her brother for letting her recover in some off-the-wall bed-and-breakfast where they served sunshine happy face breakfast platters.
“Zach…” Her brother’s name died on her lips as a familiar jolt to be alert for danger folded over her. She moved her hand first then a leg. Every limb was stiff as if she’d slept for longer than usual. A search along the sheets only revealed someone had left a warm spot next to her side. She hadn’t slept alone.
She fought the fearful swallow that danced along the back of her throat. If she weren’t at home, she wouldn’t have any weapons. A hunter always carried something useful, but she had no idea where her bag was.
“I know you’re awake,” a deep male voice said from the darkened corner to her right.
As quickly as she could manage, she shuffled out of the bed toward the door. By the time she had taken a few steps, her body rebelled. Her stomach clenched tight as a wave of nausea coursed through her.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
After each therapy session with a lovely cocktail of drugs, she was one of the lucky ones to have severe nausea. And every single time, she puked her guts out like a binge-drinking college dorm boy bending over a porcelain altar to worship.
Intensification therapy for cancer sucked ass.
The sound of her retching must’ve spurred the stranger into action. In seconds, he was at her side, a bucket in his hands. After so many hospital visits, the shame from such a personal act was gone. Nurse after nurse had seen her spew. Another stranger didn’t matter much.
He supported her with a strong arm around her waist and helped her hold the bucket. Even as her knees buckled, he held her. Far too easily.
“I gotcha,” he said softly. “It’ll be over soon.”
When she finished, her head rolled back. Episodes like this always took what little strength she had left.
“You shouldn’t have gotten up.” He picked her up and laid her on the bed. Once she was settled, he left the room with the bucket and returned shortly thereafter. All the while, her heart raced. It wasn’t the smooth lilt to his voice that alarmed her, but the heat radiating from his skin. She had lost a bit of weight, but he lifted her as if she were nothing. Had the werewolves captured her while she was so vulnerable and weak?
“Where am I?” She stuck with a safer question instead of asking, Who are you?
He chuckled. “Safe, Cynthia.”
So, he knew her name. “‘Safe’ isn’t a good enough answer.”
“You’ve been sleeping for nearly twenty-four hours after your chemotherapy treatment in Vancouver. If you were in danger, you’d be dead already, hunter.”
“Where is Zach?” She tried to keep the quiver out of her voice.
The man didn’t reply.
Her eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness. A single heavily draped window and the door were the only exit points. Each required at least five footsteps. She wore a thin T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Depending on the wintry conditions outside, she wouldn’t last long unless she took him out and found adequate clothing.
Her fingers twitched. A year ago, before her cancer diagnosis, she would’ve used a gun strapped to her thigh to turn him and every thug werewolf into Swiss cheese. At least two silver bullets to his chest would do the job.
“Did you kill him?” she asked slowly.
“No.”
Cyn could faintly make out the man who leaned against the wall. He stood tall, with broad shoulders and a lean waist. She couldn’t make out the color of his hair—matter of fact, the only features she could discern were his eyes. In the dark, they reflected like a canine’s eyes, like those of a predator. She tried to hold his gaze, but the intensity in his eyes forced her to blink. Stay sharp, Cyn.
“You’re after a ransom, aren’t you?” she managed. “Bring down the weakened hunter and use her to cushion your bank account?”
He folded his arms. “Not even close.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to calm down first. Your heartbeat is too elevated.”
As if he cared. She made a rude noise. His kind lived to conquer and dominate. Ever since the world had discovered that werewolves roamed the cities, the hunters had had to step up their game to clean up the carnage from the rogues who trailed after trouble.
“I don’t have any drugs for arrhythmia if your heart goes out, so you need to chill,” he added.
Cyn turned his way. Was he a doctor? As much as she wanted to leap out of the bed, he was right. After practically living in the hospital a few times, she wasn’t eager to go back.
Silence crept between them. The nagging need to ask questions didn’t stop. How did she get here? Where the hell was here? What had happened from the point when she got her treatment to now?
“Where is my brother?” she said with clenched teeth.
“He’s not here.” The man left the wall. With a sweep of his hand, he opened the curtains to reveal the night sky. Instead of the Vancouver skyline, there was nothing but mountains and endless trees dotting an expansive valley with not a single sign of civilization.
“Your brother returned to Vancouver,” the man said. “We brought you to my cabin in the mountains.”
