Chapter Two – Nadine

Nadine had seen the notice advertising Kurt’s painting exhibition a week ago, and knew she couldn’t attend, it wasn’t right. But the pull of him was too much. So she had allowed herself to come to stand across the road from the gallery, completely out of sight, and watch out for him. He wouldn’t see her and would have no idea she was there.

She wore a hat to cover her red hair; the fiery tones were enough to draw anyone’s eye towards her, precisely what she didn’t want. Stay out of sight; don’t let him see you. After an hour of waiting for him, even though it had become increasingly obvious he wasn’t going to attend, she knew she was the one who needed treatment for her mental disorder. She was addicted to a man she did not intend to ever meet again in real life.

While she watched, the gallery had changed from darkness to a hive of activity, but there was no sign of him. Kurt wasn’t here. If he was, she would feel it, she was sure. When he had been in her care she had felt a trickle of excitement run down her spine, the small hairs rising as her skin begged to be touched by him when he was close.

She has shut her longing away, knowing it was a fantasy; he was her patient, and felt nothing for her. Maybe he was too damaged to feel the bond between them. Or maybe the whole thing was a figment of her overactive imagination. She was probably screwed up from treating so many shifters who had lost control of their other side.

Nadine had always known she was different. That was why she took on the job of treating other shifters. In all her years of experience, Kurt was the first one to actually touch her in any meaningful way. She was sure it was the mating bond, but it was supposed to work two ways. And he gave her nothing to work with.

Other people began to arrive, filling the gallery and looking at his paintings, the paintings she had encouraged him to paint. It had been wonderful to watch him blossom from an animal who grunted in answer to questions to the man who could paint a wolf so realistic you could reach out and touch it. She wanted to look at them once more, and the pull of the gallery, even minus its tortured artist, was too much.

You are going to regret this, she thought, as she rushed across the road, hat held firmly down on her head, with her free hand clutching her coat to her throat to ward off the autumn chill. The evening was getting late, and she told her internal voice that she would take a look and then get out of there. Ten minutes and she would have satisfied her curiosity and be gone. No harm: he would never know.

“Hello, welcome to the gallery,” a young woman said, offering her a glass of wine and a catalogue.

“Thank you.” She wanted to ask if Kurt was going to make an appearance, but she couldn’t say his name without the voice in her head screaming for him. Yes, definitely a sign of her own insanity. It was why she had trained to help those who were stuck in their animal form.

Because she was stuck in her human form.

Silencing her inner voice, she sipped her wine and made her way over to the first paintings. The mountain, of course, he had told her about it while he painted, his brush flying over the canvas as if he could purge the memories from his mind. Had it worked?

Moving on to the next paintings, she looked at images of wolves, single wolves, their coats thick, snow covering them to turn them white. A pack, all howling. None of himself. She had seen him as a wolf, had scars to prove it. Unconsciously, she touched her arm, the marks where his claws had gouged at her skin a permanent reminder of her mate. His attack hadn’t put her off helping him, though; it was why she was there. To help. Slowly he had begun to trust her. Slowly she had drawn the man back from the brink of insanity.

More paintings of mountains, forests. Nature at its most beautiful, at its fiercest. The chatter of excited voices told her how well his paintings were being received, and an increasing number of sold stickers were appearing as they were snapped up. But one seemed to draw more attention than the rest and she moved towards it, eager to see what masterpiece he had created, what appealed to everyone here.

The wine glass nearly slipped from her hand. Only because she was frozen with shock did she hold on to it. With an open mouth, she stood and stared at the face looking back at her. What did it mean? Had she touched him in some way? How else could he have captured her likeness so keenly?

Because he knows what we are, the voice in her head said. However, Nadine didn’t know what she was. That was the problem: she wasn’t anything, not really. Unable to experience the shift from human to animal, she was as screwed up as the people she treated. The two parts of herself were cut off from each other, unable to bridge the gap to become one. Just like her and her mate.

She knew she should leave, but it was impossible. She couldn’t drag herself away. If she stared hard enough she thought she could see right through to her soul. Was it her imagination? Because in the eyes that looked back at her, she swore she could see her other self, her animal.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” a man beside her said, pulling her back from her trance.

She turned, hoping her hat covered her hair completely, because any stray strand would give her away. Kurt had captured the colour and tone of her hair, the way the light reflected on it, bringing out the fiery auburn streak which ran along the strands at the front where she had been touched by the devil himself, her mom used to say.

“Yes … Yes, it is?”

“Shame it’s not for sale, he could have sold it ten times.”

“It…it’s not?” she stammered like a fool. Talk about drawing attention to yourself.

“No. My wife tells me he’s got another ten like it in his cabin. Same woman, but won’t sell a single one. Still, the rest of the collection has sold well.” He smiled at her. “I’m Joel, by the way.”

“Hi, Joel.” She didn’t offer her name. And she wasn’t going to ask who his wife was. She wasn’t going to do this to herself. “Your wife knows the artist well?”

“My wife is Kurt’s sister. She’ll be along any minute now. She went to drag him out of his cabin. He had been OK with the exhibition up until two hours ago, and then he got cold feet.” Joel smiled amiably as other viewers, trying to get a look at the painting, jostled her.

“He’s coming here?” she squeaked, trying to cover it by clearing her throat and swallowing a large gulp of wine.

“If my sister can coax him out. He’s a bit of a recluse.”

“Oh, why’s that?” she asked. Nadine had hoped he had got over his need to stay away from other people. When she saw the poster for the exhibition, she had hoped it meant he was fully recovered, but he wasn’t.

At least he has left the hospital, she comforted herself.

Joel remembered himself, perhaps realising his indiscretion, and said quickly, “You know how poor, tortured artists are. Anything to look more mysterious for their fans.”

“Oh, of course. Well, I should move on,” she said. More like get out of there. Nadine knew it would be appallingly bad judgement for her to be here when he arrived. She didn’t know how he would behave. What happened if, because of her presence at the gallery, his wolf appeared while he was standing in front of all of these people?

“Nice to meet you…” He left the sentence hanging for her to fill in her name.

“Nice to meet you too, Joel.” Other people were crowding around now, and she knew this was her cue to leave. Nadine allowed herself to be jostled backwards, away from him; she simply shrugged her shoulders and let herself be taken along with the steady flow.

Only when she stopped did she have the sudden realisation that she had left it too late. He was here.

Pulling her hat down, she heard the excited chatter as he came in. She risked a sideways glance, but he was already moving through the crowds, practically pushing them out of the way. He was heading for the painting and she could tell by the look on his face, wild and unstable, that he knew she was here.

Nadine moved towards the door. It took all of her strength; her inner voice was arguing with her to go back. The hidden creature inside her was grasping at the edge of her consciousness, fighting for control. She fought it and won and, with one final surge, she was out on the street, breathless, her hands on her knees as she caught her breath.

This new image of him had branded itself onto her brain; he looked so much healthier, toned and muscular. He had allowed his deep russet brown hair to grow longer, and her fingers itched to run through the long shoulder length strands. To touch his tanned face and see those amber eyes of his burn with desire. Stop it!

Getting hold of herself firmly, she took off at a slow jog up the street, not knowing a pair of eyes had watched her strange behaviour and had guessed her secret.