I'm human again. Eighteen hours I've been roaming this mountain trying to figure out how to change back.
Coming here and letting the monster out was a mistake. I wipe my mouth, disgusted by the taste of blood. When the memory of what I ate comes flooding back, I heave behind the car.
Christ. It's not like me to not have my own body under control. This sack of bones has been a machine for me from the moment I entered the Army and got out of Kentucky at age eighteen. I can kill with my bare hands, escape any danger. I work best under pressure.
This is no time to get sensitive.
I just can't stand feeling out of control, not knowing what I'm going to do next. The way I succumbed to the animal's need to hunt-I couldn't control it. The way the waxing moon brought me out here last night.
Shit. What time is it?
I grab the keys I hid on top of the driver's side wheel and open the truck.
Twelve-fucking-thirty. I missed a meeting with my handler. I'm so fucked.
I yank on my jeans while I call Agent Annabel Gray.
"Dune, what happened to you? You've been off the grid for twenty hours." She'd checked my tracking device. I only keep it on when I'm on an active mission.
Do I hear relief in her voice? Was Ann Gray worried about me? It's an odd thought, but my relationship with her changed last month when I asked her for help tracking the… werewolves. Now, I know what they are.
What I am.
Anyway, there's trust between us. She did me a favor, said I owe her one in return.
That piece of information has had me mulling over what I know about her. What could she possibly need from me?
"I'm sorry," I say, pulling on my shirt and getting behind the wheel. "I missed our meeting."
"Is everything okay?" There's an awkward hesitation in her voice. It is personal.
"I'm not hurt." That much is true. For some reason, I don't want to lie to her, and I'm definitely not okay.
Finding out I'm a werewolf-having my werewolf genes triggered or activated by seeing others of… my kind-definitely threw me for a loop. I question my sanity on a daily basis. But more importantly, I question my efficacy. My senses are in overdrive. I hear too much, smell too many scents, crave meat like I'm going to die if I don't kill something. If I can't control my animalistic urges, what's going to happen when I'm on a job? When lives are at risk?
"I spent the night... out of the city. I can meet in ninety minutes. Give me a location."
She blows out an impatient breath. "Venice Beach, 1430 hours."
"I'll find you there."
I hang up my phone and step on the gas. I don't usually give a shit about pissed off handlers. My job performance isn't graded on how well I interface with others, it's how well I complete my missions. But for some reason-maybe because she sounded like she cared-I'm in a hurry to see Agent Gray face to face.
Maybe even to apologize.
Annabel
I BUY an ice cream cone and sit on the wall at Venice Beach, blending in with the hordes of beachgoers. I dressed to fit in-I'm wearing a halter top and shorts with wrap-around sandals I can run in if I need to.
I can't believe I'm upset Charlie Dune hooked up with someone last night. Why in the hell would I care?
We don't have a relationship.
I'm his handler, for God's sake.
Yeah, he's hot. All the field agents I've met appeal to me. I mean what's not enthralling about highly intelligent men whose bodies are trained weapons? Agents who supposedly can single-handedly bring down governments or start wars? Agents who can rescue hostages or-rumor has it-execute a kill order? I know I've never passed along orders like that, but my clearance level isn't high.
Dune, like all field agents, is built of chiseled muscle. He's not huge or tall, they never are. They need to be able to slip in and out of places unnoticed-blend in.
I have a thing for spies, I guess, particularly Dune. Something happened last month between us. Actually, it's probably all in my head. Which is why I'm an intelligence analyst, not a field agent-I over-emotionalize, get personal with people and situations. I care too deeply. Despite my basic combat training, I'd never be able to pull the trigger on anyone even if my life depended on it.
I bent some rules and put my own job on the line to get some information last month for Dune. He said he lost someone involved with the lab fires. And I probably over-personalized that. Because I know what it's like to investigate our government's dirty secrets when it involves a loved one.
"Chocolate-my favorite," a deep voice rumbles behind me.
I don't jump. I'm used to him appearing out of thin air. What I'm not used to is how close he comes in. If I didn't think it was crazy, I'd swear he leaned in to inhale my scent.
I turn and find his face too near to mine, and the green of his eyes appears to change to ice blue in the sunlight.
Damn.
Yeah, he's hotter than I remembered. In a tight black t-shirt-the kind that stretches over his hard muscles-and a ball cap pulled low over his green eyes, he looks the perfect hunky, California surfer.
He steals the ice cream cone from me and takes a big lick. Well, this is definitely different. We're practically sharing spit.
Is he flirting?
Oh, that's ripe. After he missed our morning meeting because of some hook-up he had. I never knew Dune was such a player, but it fits. Field agents can't have permanent relationships, so they become man-whores, getting it whenever and wherever they want.
Asshole.