Kill it!

The scorpion scuttled across his path, the pointed stinger poised in a high arch over its segmented back. Nasty buggers. They could cause quite the sting. At camp, if you spotted one, you immediately killed it. Squish! Boot stomped hard. Yes, it would make a crunchy wet noise. And, yes, some of the veterans liked to mock the fresh faces by faking little screams when a newbie had to make his first kill. The expression on their faces? Priceless.

The critter scampered close, but this one time, Derrick let the scorpion live. Why not? Out here in the middle of who the fuck cared, it wasn’t likely he’d run into it again. Besides, lifting his foot would waste some precious energy. He needed every ounce he could get.

The sun beat down on his helmet, and the sweat pooled, rolling in thick rivulets to soak the collar of his shirt. The harness straps dug into his shoulders, yet he dared not shed those supplies—a canteen, knife, and other crap deemed necessary for survival. In this arid land, so far from home, with the rules not the same as he’d grown up with, every advantage was needed.

The terrain he and the other soldiers crossed proved merciless—the hard ground leached of moisture, the very air itself beyond parched, every inhalation bringing with it a faint patina of dust. The fine grime existed everywhere, layering the air even along the outer perimeter of the slow-moving convoy. A utility vehicle led the way, sometimes speeding ahead before stopping and waiting for them to approach, their advance scout watching for danger.

Derrick initially had begun this trip riding in a vehicle, but it didn’t take long before the hairs on his neck began to rise. When they stopped to give everyone a break, the lieutenant in charge of this convoy asked for some walkers to scan the outer edges, as the next few clicks were considered the most dangerous. Derrick immediately volunteered. However, the initial enjoyment of stretching his legs soon paled under the beating sun.

The rumble of a large diesel truck, a dusty brown and gray with a tarped rear, revved as its driver got impatient at the slow pace. It wasn’t as if they needed speed for their mission. Sent on a supply run by his superiors, he and the other soldiers protected a caravan of food for the refugee camp, along with miscellaneous supplies. Getting there alive and with their goods was more important than how quickly. It never failed to amaze Derrick the amount of shit needed to keep a camp going, whether it be military or civilian.

I have a much more intense appreciation for toilet paper. As a matter of fact, when his tour eventually ended and he returned home, he was going to fill a room with the softest ass wipes he could find. Floor to ceiling.

Chuckle.

Boom!

The explosion took him by surprise. The deafening noise hit his ears before the ground rumbled underfoot.

Shit! Someone had hit a landmine. Even as he dove to the ground, he already knew it was too late. A few objects impacted against his back, and he couldn’t stop a hiss at the sudden searing heat. Struck by shrapnel, the loose bits of metal packed around the bomb. They made for deadly projectiles when mixed with explosives, but at least he lived, if face first in the dirt.

He’d hit the ground and bounced hard, slamming against the gritty soil, grinding it against his lips. Faintly, through the ringing in his ears, he could hear shouting, the faint muffled yells of others caught in the backlash.

“Joey’s down. Medic. We need a fucking medic.”

“My leg. My leg. My leg,” screamed another.

In Derrick’s case, it was his back. It throbbed in a spot high on his shoulder, the burning piece of metal an alien thing his flesh protested painfully. Lower though? Although he knew something had hit him there, he felt nothing. Perhaps those pieces had bounced off.

As another explosion shook the ground, he ducked his head between his arms, covering it from the raining debris.

Such a fucking cowardly way to attack, and not how he wanted to die. We walked into a trap. A trap he’d never even smelled because they bloody buried it and his nose was almost useless with the grit muffling his senses.

Hate the sand. His wolf ever did whine for them to go home. His more canine side missed the crisp freshness of a forest and the soft verdant nature of a field filled with soft grass.

He missed the smells of home, but he missed more not being able to count on his most refined skill. His nose usually led him away from danger, but out here, his extra special sense proved useless, and that meant difficulties when it came to easing himself from the active minefield, where any wrong step could blow him up.

Except I’m not supposed to walk on a suspected minefield.

During their training and conditioning exercises, Derrick and the other recruits were run through dozens of drills. At the time, some of them seemed surreal, like the one their grizzled instructor claimed might, “Avoid getting your sorry asses blown into bite-sized chunks.”

Some of the guys said the minefield test was what separated men from the dog food. The key was a slow, and with little pressure, crawl out of the danger zone. He’d passed that exercise no problem, so it should be a cinch now.

I hope.

Derrick pushed himself up on his forearms, ready to creep from the minefield, except his legs didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

What the hell? Had something landed on him, pinning him without him knowing?

A glance over his shoulder showed nothing there. Even more frightening, there wasn’t any pain, not a sensation at all.

Gulp. Perhaps he’d just gone numb? He struggled to bring his knee up. Wiggle his toes. Feel or move any goddamned thing below his waist.

Nothing.

I can’t feel a thing.

Panic gripped him, clutching him tight in a fist and taunting him. I’m paralyzed. The very idea horrified him, but he quickly reminded himself it was not the end of the world. Chances were his infirmity was temporary. Once he made it to a hospital, they’d fix him up. Shifter genes were stronger than human ones. They healed quicker and better from most wounds. He tried to keep that hopeful reminder as his mantra instead of recalling the soldiers who’d gone home before him. Broken men in body and spirit.

As Derrick clawed at the dirt, dragging his body—my useless fucking body—across terrain that still trembled as a chain reaction set off other bombs, he tried to remain optimistic. I’m gonna get out of here. Doc is gonna put me on a few days bed rest and tell me how lucky I am. Maybe I’ll get a pass to visit home. Have a beer with my bros.

He just needed to make it to safety and that could happen. Find himself a hidey hole while he waited for the military to pick him up and take him to a field hospital for a little shrapnel removal.

Just stay alive. Stay alive amidst the smoke and dust that hung in the air, a heavy fog that did nothing to muffle the screams, but hid their attackers, who suddenly started firing.

Fuck. This was more than just a random attack with IEDs. Actual rebel forces had lain in wake and now ambushed. They were even more dangerous than scorpions. Their arrival made getting to a better defensive position even more important.

Claw and pull. Dig those fingers, grip with those tips and heave. He pulled his overly large—damn my healthy large-boned genes—body forward, but it took effort. Panting with exertion meant drawing in the dirty air around him and then coughing, short, sharp exhalations.

Perhaps it was that sound that drew attention, or someone got lucky with a random shot through the murk. The sharp projectile skimmed across his skull, dragging a furrow in his scalp.

“Mother fucker.” The expletive burst from him, and he could almost imagine the taste of the soap his mother would have made him eat if she’d heard it. Such a strange memory to flash on and the precursor to pain. It arrived with prompt sharpness as blood drizzled, hot and wet, from his temple. Sticky, cloying stuff. He could see nothing through the eye he had to shut while the other blinked at the dust stinging it.

What a sight I must make. Not his finest moment.

Through the cotton bells that both rang and muffled his hearing, he caught a shrill plea for mercy. “Please don’t kill me. I’ve got a w—”

Bang.

The begging ended mid-word. A systematic execution by the enemy. If they were killing soldiers, then Derrick was done for. Toast. I can’t escape.

His inner wolf didn’t agree. With a snarl, it shoved at the bond that held it prisoner inside his head. Shoved and got nowhere. It wasn’t the one in charge. Derrick reminded his beast of that.

What will you do as a wolf? Snarl and snap at them?

Apparently, his beast saw nothing wrong with that plan, not even the sure-fire bullet to the brain. Once again, his other half pushed. Oh how hard his beast pushed for control, enough that Derrick had to make an effort to remain in the driver’s seat.

I can’t believe you’re making me fight you. But he won. A win that might be short-lived as Derrick heard the crunch of boots on the ground, approaching from behind. He rolled to his back, determined to face death like a man.

A wolf would tear out death’s ankle, his wolf thought in a full-blown sulk.

The infidel stood over him, brown woolen scarf hiding the lower half of his face, another piece of it covering his hair. A head fully hidden except for cold, dark eyes.

There’s a look I recognize. Of course Derrick knew it, as he saw it on the face of every enemy he met. The rebels fought for their version of justice. Derrick would find no mercy here, and he wouldn’t ask for any.

A sneer tugged one side of his mouth. “What are you waiting for, asshole? Shoot me.” Taunt thrown, the fingers of Derrick’s left hand curled around the handgrip for his pistol. He’d slipped it from the holster when he rolled. Now he just waited for his chance.

The fellow raised his rifle, the round black hole of the tip staring Derrick in the eye. At point-blank range, his chances of survival weren’t looking good. With no time left, Derrick lunged upward, pulling his gun out of hiding.

There wasn’t much time to aim, but his target stood fairly close. The gun fired, the retort sharp and his aim steady, considering. What Derrick had not expected was how not being able to flex his ass to hold himself upright would screw him over.

He’d practiced shooting one-handed enough times to expect the recoil, but that was when his whole body worked. He landed flat on his back, the motion jarring enough that he lost his grip on the pistol. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need it again.

The guy, who thought he’d have an easy time executing Derrick, arched as a red flower blossomed on his chest. The infidel shouted out in alarm and stared down at his chest in disbelief, but only for a scant moment. With a yell that Derrick was pretty sure was the translated equivalent of, “You’re dead, dirty fucker!” he brought his rifle back to bear, even as his life force pumped from his chest wound. Before he could shoot Derrick, another voice barked, more guttural consonants that Derrick didn’t understand. The result? No bullet to the head or any other body part.

That wasn’t reassuring. If they didn’t want him dead, then that meant they wanted him—alive. He’d heard stories and had no interest in living some of the more vivid ones.

Derrick rolled to his side and looked for the gun he’d dropped as the shouts neared. He could practically feel the vibration as boots hit the ground in a run nearby.

He couldn’t find his weapon before several bodies surrounded him, all wearing their version of combat gear and those feature-concealing scarves. Of more concern, they were armed to the teeth, and as Derrick knew, none of them were squeamish about shooting an injured man on the ground.

Except, instead of filling him with bullets, they did something worse. They took him prisoner because, as his captor explained in broken English, “The best prisoners, they no run. You no run.” Big smile. The most chilling words a man could hear. They wanted to torture him for information.

They were quite good at it too. With them, Derrick learned pain he’d never imagined, especially once they began to marvel at how well Derrick healed. To their sadistic delight, he quickly healed most of his injuries, except the one affecting his spine. The shards embedded in his body, poisonous metal threaded with silver, kept him from repairing his biggest weakness.

But that was his only weakness. When it came to pain, Derrick was a pro. All shifters were, and Derrick wasn’t the type to reveal secrets. I’ll die first.

His captors tried their best, though, and they questioned and questioned and… Derrick said not a word, and he took their punishment. Took the pain and didn’t crack. They employed every technique they knew. He had the scars, the ones gouged with silver, to prove it.

But I didn’t crack.

The torture didn’t last as long as some others suffered. Perhaps two weeks all told, yet it was enough. When the military finally rescued Derrick from the camp where the rebels held him captive, he was a shell of himself, a broken and dirty man who snarled at everyone, even those who would help him.

In order to survive, he’d relied on his beast a little too much. Let the wolf protect him from the worst. Returning to the man he had once been proved…difficult. Derrick was no longer the brash and fit soldier who set out to do his duty for his country. He rolled off the plane a cripple, a useless veteran who couldn’t even take a proper piss—or jerk off a quick one in the can.

More than once he wished the infidels had killed him. Killed him so he wouldn’t have to live like this. A burden on everyone.

I won’t do it to them. I won’t do this to my family. He spared them that chore by throwing himself at the mercy of the military who had a place for guys like him, some kind of rehab center for broken soldiers—many of them shifter ones. Derrick thought of it as the farm people sent their broken pets to die.

Not exactly the most uplifting place. A handful of angry men, frustrated men with wild eyes and, in some cases, snarling beasts. Throw in the occasional livid woman sporting sharp claws. They were supposed to support each other, and some of them did, but Derrick kept himself apart, segregated because he wasn’t like them. Something was missing inside him. He knew it. He hadn’t completely come back from that rebel camp.

Within, his beast paced, caged and yet pushing to get out. Pushing to take over. It would be so easy to let him take over.

And tear off the face of the guy who is practically doing cartwheels in his new prosthetic. Show off. Derrick envied him so hard. He could have handled having metal limbs. Better than what he got stuck with.

He thumped a closed fist down hard on Meat Snake One and then on Meat Snake Two. Didn’t feel a thing.

Argh.

“Should you be doing that?” a dulcet voice asked. Stupid lack of privacy. The open door to his room at the rehab center didn’t prevent anyone entry, nothing to stop the stranger from simply strolling in and bringing a tingle of awareness with her.

What’s happening?

Every small hair on his body lifted, and he sniffed.

Smells good. Real good. I want it. Have to have it.

Not it. Her. Want her.

No. Oh hell no. Disbelief swelled within as he smelled her.

It wasn’t that the woman who entered smelled bad. On the contrary, she was beyond divine. Flowers was his first thought. Springtime tulips, red ones with the bright yellow centers exuding a spot of brightness in the dreary and breathing freshness into the world. She smelled of renewal. Life.

She’s smells like mine.

No.

Lifting his gaze—which the mirror showed still glinted more wolf than man—Derrick leered at the chubby redhead in the ill-fitting blouse and slacks. Such a delectable morsel. A sweet thing sent in to collar the beast. Didn’t those treating him and keeping him caged know better than to put someone so innocent, so delicate, so human, within reach?

Grab her. She’s ours to take.

How long since he’d taken a woman? Long before the accident even, probably not since his last leave home, as fraternizing with the local girls was frowned upon.

So a long time since he’d fucked. He obviously suffered from overfull balls—balls he could no longer drain—and here the administration sent temptation—and a reminder of his impotence—to taunt him.

Did they want him to snap? Was that their plan? Did they know how much it would hurt to see a woman, such a desirable woman, and know he couldn’t do a fucking thing about it?

Cruelty to animals. Bite their face off.

Used to the violence, he ignored the suggestion, but knew he had to do something to get the woman out of here. Since the shrinks wouldn’t do the right thing and lock him up—they kept insisting he could adapt when all he wanted to do was chase them through the woods—then Derrick would have to do the next best thing and scare her off before he did something he could never take back. Like tear the clothes from her succulent body and dive between those creamy, curvy thighs.

The erotic visual served only to remind that licking was all he’d ever do again. His days of fucking and satisfying a woman were gone.

I am not a man anymore. And he was never more reminded than when the woman who could have been his mate—and lover—entered his room. She needed to go. Now.

“Hello, darling,” he drawled. “How nice of the military to send me a snack. I’ve been ever so hungry for a woman.” He snapped his teeth at her and rumbled, a low, menacing, and, yes, slightly inhuman sound.

To his surprise, she didn’t recoil from his threat. Instead, she leaned forward and smacked him on the nose with a rolled-up folder. To add insult to her ignoble act, in a no-nonsense tone she said, “Bad wolf. Behave yourself right now, or there will be no treats for you!”

Say what?