Bite Me.

Ch 8

I went and sat on the of the low leather couches, pulling a faux fur throw around me. A roaring fire was going in the massive stone fireplace and a held out my feet closer and Heath came and sat beside me, handing me a cup of coffee. I took it gratefully and leaned into his side as he wrapped an arm around me.

"So," I started. "The story you told me yesterday is true?" He nodded and I fired another question. "And you're a werewolf how?" He sighed and scrubbed his face looking towards the fire. "No one is entirely sure. It was a different time then and magic was closer to the people. Obviously Astrid had some powers and cast a spell to protect her loved ones. But that about as specific as it gets."

"Has anyone ever tried to break the spell?"

"No. It's a gift and so is a bite...if it's done right."
"But what if someone doesn't want to be a wolf? I mean how long can you go without changing into Fluffy?"

"Our wolves call to us and the longer we go between changes, the louder the call gets. The longest I went was two months when I was younger. But once you control it, it's not so bad. It's fucking amazing to be able to run as fast as you can and to feel the wind in your fur. Your senses are heightened too and it's incredible. I haven't met anyone who wanted to be 'normal'."

"Hmmm. Maybe. But what about the wolf that bit me? He was different." Heath stiffened next to me and his arm around me tightened. His eyes went to my ankle outheld by the fire. The raised scar peeked out from my jeans. "It was a rogue. A lone wolf like Vidar's ancestor. It's given over completely to the wolf side and there's hardly any man left. But that doesn't mean it's not smart or ruthless. My family has always made it our mission to deal with any rogues in the area. I've been tracking this one for months but it's smarter than most and covers it fucking tracks. I should have killed the fucking thing a long time ago. Long before it made it here. In a way, I think it knew what it was doing coming here. I'm sorry that it bit you. It's my fault really." His voice was so broken and guilty, I turned and held him tight, rubbing his back.

"Is that why you keep thinking I'm going to hate you?" At his nod, I drew in a sharp breath and held his face between my hands, searching his eyes. "Like I told you before, I could never hate you, Heath. It's not your fault. And to quote someone I greatly admire, 'And you fucking know that.'" I said sternly, repeating his words he told me not that long ago. "There's no one to blame but that rogue wolf. And you'll get him eventually. Or someone else will. A crazy wolf won't last long here. So don't you dare go blaming yourself, do you understand me?" He looked at me and smiled softly at my serious expression. "I understand you perfectly, darlin'."

"Good," I digressed, pecking his lips, "because I've got more questions."
"Fire away, sweetheart."

"Where'd you go when you left Branson Mills?"

"Everywhere. I took my truck and just roamed, visiting other packs, killing rogues. I went from Maine to Washington then down to California and over to Florida."

"What happened to being tied down? Responsibilities and all that?"

"That is a part of my responsibilities. The Branson's are somewhat wolf royalty. We are the ones packs come to to settle disputes or when they've got a rogue problem they can't handle. My dad and I handle it or we gather others to take care of it. We used to have a huge festival here every year with wolves from all over the world to just check in."

"I think I remember Nana talking about that. Although there was no mention of wolves. Why don't you do it anymore?" That question had him looking sad again. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No. I do. It's just not a very happy story. Something happened thirty years ago. There was an accident at the mill and a lot of people were killed. My grandfather and two of my uncles died. Most of my family moved away except my grandma. She said she refused to abandon the house where her husband and her children grew up. My dad took us and moved far away. With my dad, the leader of the Branson pack, no longer at Branson Mills, it felt wrong to continue the tradition. Since then, the festival's rotated throughout the other packs."