Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel Read Online Free Page B

great grizzlies that roamed the hills, and for a pup, even an eagle was a concern. She learned the growls of the bitch that trained her. A sharp nip or bite reinforcing what was expected of her was common, as well as the soft nudges of her nose and body when her bitch was rewarding her. Those expectations were simpler than what her sire asked of her. But his lessons came when she was older, wiser, and more patient.
    His training was different. He coached her with gentle words an d a compassionate touch, never a bite. He scratched in the dirt the lessons he wanted her to know while she looked on, her head cocked to one side in confusion, for much of it. For the longest time it didn’t make any sense to her. It didn’t help her hunt or learn the behaviour of prey. But her sire persisted for the seasons he was with her, teaching the language of men, and the nature of sand.

    Faelon felt the heat of Michael’s body beside her.
    She had curled up beside her sire and his bitch, knew what the sharing of warmth was, what affection meant to pack members, but Michael’s warmth was different. He filled her with a heat and a need she had never felt before, a feeling that left her complete. She loved his scent; it was a reminder of her sire and the rich scent of fire and smoke, and with Michael the addition of the musky scent of his sex. But underneath was the smell of sickness. That saddened her, left her feeling more alone than when she had run outside willing the fur and form she had always known to come back and nothing had happened. And that emotion was foreign to her, the angst of not being able to run as a wolf.
    She rolled away and stretched, her new paws in front of her, hips in the air, and then shook out her muscles. She missed the warmth of her fur. She slipped off the bed, as Michael had called it last night, and padded over to the door and stepped out into the morning light, leaving the door ajar.
    Now , how did she hunt in this form? Her sire had done it, but that was with tools, and while he had talked to her the way Michael did, and explained it, all of that was a long time ago.
    She breathed in the scent of the mountains: the sharp smell of pine, the actinic smell of stone, the sweet smell of water, moss, and —rabbit. She crouched down. Snow crunched under her new paws as she moved onto all fours. Faelon followed her nose and her hearing: the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, the snow caressing the landscape, and the heartbeat of her prey.
    She was still a wolf on the inside. Faelon tracked the animal over the countryside, the hills and trees and terrain all familiar to her. She noticed the rabbit’s movement, and shifted her own to herd it the way she wanted it to go. The loud snap told her she had done it right.
    Faelon walked into the bowl -shaped clearing where she had met Michael. The rabbit twisted with fear. The scent was sweet and acrid at the same time. She reached out and grabbed the animal, held it down, and pulled its head back until it stilled. The crack of its bones was a sharp echo in the wind. She pressed down on the release mechanism of the trap, the same way her mate had, and picked up the rabbit. She bit into its flesh with her sharp teeth, and ripped leaving a piece of the body near the trap. An offering, as her sire had taught her. Then she ate a bite, savouring the blood and flesh.
    The rest was for her mate.

    Faelon looked at Michael in his lair and held up the half-eaten rabbit in her hand. It dripped blood on the floor. She dropped it and moved with a smooth lope to jump the last metre onto the sprawled form in the bed. He rolled at the last minute tangling in the blankets, but managed to grab Faelon before she bounced. She let him pull her in close.
    “God , woman. The sun’s not even up. And you left the door open. It’s bloody cold out.”
    She didn’t understand some of the words , but his tone was comforting, and playful.
    “Food, Michael.”
    “How do you understand?”
    She