“Kitty,” he said. I paused but didn’t turn around. I shouldn’t even have done that much. I should have kept walking to the car, then driven away. Not that it would have helped any when he said in that same commanding exorcist’s voice, “Lupus vincens.”

He spoke the words clearly and carefully, and this time I recognized the language. I could guess enough Latin to know what it meant.

“What?” I said, turning, and he said the words again, stronger this time, and a cramp ran from my gut to my skull, dropping me to my knees. Goose bumps broke out all over my skin, like needles pricking me. My bag fell off my shoulder as I hugged myself. Another wave of cramps wracked my whole body this time, every muscle clenching.

Another body inside me was bucking, fighting to break free. I knew this feeling, I recognized what was happening, but it had never happened like this before. Never so violent. Usually, shifting felt like Wolf was breaking out from the inside. Now she was being ripped free from the outside.

I screamed a rage-filled denial. Was this supposed to scare me? Was this supposed to prove how much power he really had? My muscles spasmed, teeth and claws trying to tear out of human skin. Hunched over, I tried to keep from hyperventilating. Looking up, I expected to see Roman standing over me, gloating, sneering. He kept his distance, though, and didn’t smile. His frown seemed almost disgusted. I couldn’t guess by what: this scene of torture he’d created? By the fact that I wouldn’t agree to his terms? By the mere fact that I was an inferior, stupid wolf?

I could have fought it. I wasn’t so far gone that I couldn’t pull it back. I’d pulled back from farther than this before. But I decided not to. I decided I needed to fly. At him.

I ripped my shirt over my head and let go.

Chapter 19

Not for defense, not to hunt, not to flee on faster legs. Now, and for the first time, this part of her is driven by rage. Vision is red. Kicking, writhing, saliva flying from bared teeth, she tears free of her tangled human skin. Thick claws scrape against a hard, flat earth. Not forest, not safe. The air smells of too many people, alien, oily scents of the human world.

And this thing, the being who attacked her. The figure smells of death.

Fur bristles, rising stiffly along her back. Head lowered, tail straight behind her, she bares her teeth and glares. Her opponent glares back, unmoving. Is it a challenge? Doesn’t matter. He smells wrong, and she must fight. Claws scrabbling, she launches. She will pounce, put her jaws around his neck, topple him, and tear into his flesh.

The man of death merely steps aside. Grabs her foreleg at the shoulder. Wrenches. She slams against the ground, hits hard, yelps, but doesn’t stop moving. Back on her feet, she leaps away, braces, facing him. Deciding how best to flank him.

“The alpha shows her colors,” he says.

They circle each other. She can’t—won’t—turn her back to him. And he won’t turn his to her. If he attacks, she’ll be ready, but she won’t strike him directly, not again. Her shoulder throbs with the impact of the last throw.

“A standoff. So. You’re smart enough not to fling yourself against me again and again. That’s something.”

Her mouth is metallic with anger. With the need to tear flesh. Blood will soothe the bitterness on her tongue. But somehow she knows: This creature has little blood to spare. Still, she cannot turn away from him and stares her challenge.

The man of death smiles.

“You’ve made an error your human self would not have done,” he says. “You’ve met my gaze. Look at me, wolf. Look deep, and do as I say.”

Suddenly she hears nothing but his voice.

“I know what will hurt you worst of all. You think you’re the first self-righteous werewolf in the world? You’re not. Your kind always fears the same thing. So this is what I will make you do: Seek out people. Seek out crowds. They are your prey. Hunt them. Perhaps you’ll even live long enough to wake and understand what you’ve done.”

The voice inside her that always whispers, that urges her to one thing or another, is his voice now, and the metallic taste on her tongue, the hunger for blood, the need to hunt, rises uncontrollable. A brief smell of the air shows her how much prey is here. Too many people around, yes. Plenty of hunting.

She breathes out. Something in her whines. She wants to run, but her legs are stiff.

“Go,” he says. “Go and hunt.”

“No, Kitty. Don’t listen.”

Her name calls her back. She shakes her head, rubs her face on her paw. She feels like she’s scented something awful.

There are two of them now. Two men of death. The first looks away, and she moves, trots back and forth, keeping them both in her vision. They stand on either side of her, as if they seek to trap her.

She can’t fight them both. She needs her pack for that, but the wolves are far away right now. She is in a maze of concrete and steel. Growling low, daring them to follow her, she backs away. Then she turns and runs. Find her pack, find her mate, find a safe haven.

Even keeping to shadows, trotting along walls, out of sight, she feels exposed. Danger is everywhere. There are hunters hunting her. Her senses are so taut they hurt, smell and hearing stretched to breaking.

When he approaches, she smells him. The man of death. The second, not the first, who has left. The one who called her from the other’s spell. How long has it been, how long has she been running, and how has he found her?

He moves from shadow to a circle of light, near a fence and a row of low shrubs where she tries to hide. He is calm, not challenging. Not staring, not bristling. It keeps her from running again.

“Kitty.” His soft, murmuring voice is so different than the other’s.

Part of her wants to flee, and part of her is drawn to him. Head low, she paces in a wary circle. He’s a friend, part of her says. Trust him. Go to him. It’s the part of her that walks on two legs, like him, but she doesn’t know if she can trust that voice.

But she’s drawn to him.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” he says. “What a beautiful creature. Not that I expected anything different.”

She growls low.

“You can’t hurt me. You know that, I think. Somewhere in there you know I’m your friend.” He crouches, offers a hand. “Kitty. It’s Friday. You have a show to do, don’t you? You need to come back.”

His voice lulls her. But the anger that drew her into this shape lingers. Who is he to tell her this?