Bound

Chapter 15

Dean scrubbed his hands across his face, exhaled a build-up of frustration and sank back in his office chair. "Okay," he laced his hands behind his head, "let's have a think about this. Taylor is a rogue, who for some really screwed up reason, has lost, or can't connect, with her wolf. Whatever did this originated from her pack, and she's terrified of them finding her—which means they may already be looking for her. And . . ." regret sighed, "that's all I've got."

The phone on his desk waited, but his hands stayed put. He'd met rogues before, dealt with them in all kinds of situations, but this was the first time he'd ever seen one so terrified of being returned to their pack, they would choose to die first. Her threat to harm one of his pack held no weight; she didn't have the necessary strength, but her desperation had finally registered: Taylor's need to leave his territory, as far as she was concerned, was for her own survival.

When he'd shaken himself out of the stupor her alarming revelations had caused, he'd found her in the living room, curled into a corner of his couch. Her refusal to make eye contact lasted for over half an hour, along with her silence. Not that he'd asked more questions, her distress had him too upset to push her further, but every suggestion of how he might help she'd rebuffed with ardent head shakes. Only when he offered her a place in his pack did she finally speak.

'No.'

'Taylor, come on, think about it. If you join my pack you'd be under our protection.'

'I said no.'

'Even temporarily?'

'No.'

'Why?'

'It would only make things worse.'

'How? That makes no sense.'

Her reply had been a bitter laugh, then silence again.

In the end, more frustrated than he'd thought possible, he decided to show her the guest bedroom so she could enjoy her own mute company. She'd refused, of course, insisting that sleeping on the couch would suit her better, and he'd just been about to remind her of how the house was securely guarded and there was no way she'd be able to sneak out during the night, when she'd pleaded with him for one final time that he not contact her pack.

Ready to shrug indication of his genuine indecision, her cowered form stalled his response. This wolf was maimed, crippled in a way he would have never thought possible, and he couldn't pretend to ignore it any longer.

Lycans were violently territorial and unfailingly savage about protecting their own packs, but an honour code still existed beneath the aggressive covetousness, a code that compelled them to defend any of their kin when threatened by another kind. As an alpha, this rogue was his responsibility, but as a werewolf, this injured female was his responsibility too.

'I won't contact your pack,' he had decided aloud. 'But that doesn't mean I'll stop trying to help. You know I can't ignore what's been done.'

But how could he help? The question had run unending laps in his head while grabbing bedding for Taylor, and it was only when he'd mind-linked with the patrol to warn they keep an extra close eye on his house when he made a final decision: Despite what he'd agreed, he'd have to trace her pack. But cautious steps were required. Werewolves were a secretive lot. If he poked around he'd have to do it discreetly, otherwise he'd end up in the problematic situation of defending a rogue who didn't want protection, and potentially dealing with an alpha who, although had the right to claim her back, could very possibly be a part of the disgusting situation which had been forced upon her.