Bound

Chapter 12

Thirteen days passed in a state of forced randomness. Nyah travelled by whatever means possible, sometimes doubling back on her route, and twice, journeying in a complete circle. Even though her unique scent had almost disappeared, she wanted to be sure that if Simon trailed only hours behind, the way she had criss-crossed her own path would confuse the hell out of him.

Tracking her had to be next to impossible, and ironically, the only advantage to having her wolf gone. The disadvantages were numerous and overwhelming. She couldn't hear properly, couldn't see beyond her own nose in the dark, run with any kind of speed, or pick out a single scent that would alert her to the presence of other werewolves.

Wretched loneliness struck harder. Every so often she'd make a decision about her next move, and forgetting the loss of her wolf, would automatically pause to consider her opinion. In those hollow seconds after, the sense of being severed from her own self hit so acutely, she'd taken to wrapping her arms around her ribcage, as if fighting to hold herself together. And now, added to those troubles, another more worrying side-effect had taken hold.

At first, Nyah had assumed the come-down off her regular adrenaline spikes were to blame for her weighty tiredness. But when the grogginess began to creep upon her in unexpected moments, Simon's comment about how her bound wolf would eventually kill her, poked harder for attention. She wasn't exactly knocking on death's door; the weariness was more a nuisance than anything else, but now she monitored the episodes of sudden fatigue, it was obvious they occurred more often, and lasted for a little longer each time. But what she could do about it, she had no clue.

"Just like everything else," she flung her bag onto the bed of the latest motel. She landed beside it a moment later, stretching out with a groan of relief.

When she had fled from Blackwater, her plan hadn't included a 'What Next?' step. Too frantic to figure out anything beyond her escape, she'd left the worry tucked into the corner of her mind. But now the bucket-load of questions kept tipping over at regular intervals. What happens now? How will you get your wolf back? How can you help your pack? Who can you trust?

Nyah tugged the lumpy pillow out from under her head and slammed it over her face. She'd spent hours dwelling on every question, and all she'd managed to come up with was a big fat 'I don't know' for each demand. The only viable option was to keep moving. Sooner or later she'd have to get help, but the problem lay in finding someone she could trust. If the only people who could restore her wolf were of Cassius Ochre's ilk, she wasn't willing to accept their help. How could she trust them? And how deep might Simon's hooks be embedded? She couldn't risk being delivered back into his waiting, clammy grasp—a grasp she found at the end of every scenario she'd played out in her mind.

She groaned aloud, too exhausted to navigate the maze of her complicated situation. An arduous, unnerving day had left her shattered. Thanks to her crappy sense of direction, she'd ended up walking for miles along an endless stretch of road so void of passing traffic, she'd wondered if she'd somehow missed mankind coming to a sudden and silent end. When a truck had eventually rumbled into view, she'd been quick to wave the driver down for directions. He offered her a ride, but no sooner had she clambered up into the cab and dumped her bag at her aching feet than she regretted her hasty acceptance.

Anyone who opened a conversation with a lick of lips and a 'you look just like my dead wife' was not the kind of company to lower one's guard with. Nyah had spent the subsequent hours so alert to every move the creepy driver made, that when she jumped down from the intense atmosphere of the humid cab, every nerve in her body felt strung tight enough to snap.

Scary Widower had dropped her on the outskirts of a town called Shoreton, where after a short walk she found The Leaning Pines Motel. It had just gone six-thirty in the evening when she'd stuck the key into the door of her room, but was so weak, even the thoughts of having to chew food made her want to cry. Although hunger had her light-headed, clothes needed to be washed first. A motel stay was a luxury she'd been avoiding, so on the handful of times she'd forked out precious cash for a room, she'd made sure she'd got her money's worth by availing of all the facilities; hot water, free soap, and the breakfast buffet she'd become adept at fleecing and cramming into her bag.