Page 25

I've never been particularly good at those things.

I push away from the crate and run. The chase tears through narrow alleys and back streets, my lungs burning, my legs protesting. The suspect darts between buildings and Brock follows, nearly catching them near a fenced loading area — his hand closes around empty air as the figure twists with impossible smoothness, like someone who has escaped pursuers before. They slip sideways, duck beneath his reach, and keep moving.

"Damn it," Brock growls.

I round the corner just as the suspect reaches another alley. Instinct takes over. I lunge, my fingers catching fabric, and for one glorious second I think it worked.

Then the suspect shoves me. Hard.

The world tilts. My balance disappears, and pain explodes through my side as I crash into a metal dumpster. The impact steals my breath, and everything goes white. For one terrible moment I can't move. The suspect vanishes into the darkness, and the sound of running footsteps fades until silence returns — broken only by my breathing.

And Brock.

"Juniper."

The way he says my name is wrong. Too sharp. Too raw. I push myself upright, which is a mistake — pain shoots through my ankle and I hiss through my teeth.

Wonderful.

Heavy footsteps approach, then stop. I look up, and immediately wish I hadn't.

Because Brock looks terrifying. Not angry, not irritated. Terrifying. His chest rises and falls heavily, and his eyes burn with something primal, something dangerous. A deep roar erupts from him, the sound echoing through the alley as power vibrates through the air. Heat rolls off him in waves, actual heat, strong enough to feel from several feet away. His hands flex, and claws emerge from his fingers — long, sharp, deadly.

His gaze sweeps the alley. Searching. Hunting. Looking for whoever hurt me.

The intensity of it sends a shiver down my spine, and it isn't fear. It's something deeper, because beneath the rage I see it — pain. Real pain, as though my injury somehow reached him too. The emotion flashes through his eyes so quickly I almost miss it before the fury swallows it whole, returning stronger than before.

He's ready to hunt. Ready to tear through the entire town looking for whoever touched me.

Nobody has ever reacted like this for me. Not once.

"Brock."

He doesn't answer. His gaze stays fixed on the darkness, claws flexing, waiting. I reach for him despite the pain, wrapping my fingers around one of his hands, around the claws. The contact captures his attention immediately — those amber eyes snap toward me. At that moment I don't recognize the man staring back.

Then I squeeze gently. "Relax."

The command sounds ridiculous. I say it anyway. "Relax."

His chest rises sharply. The heat remains, the fury remains, but something shifts. His gaze settles fully on me — not the alley, not the darkness. Me. The claws begin retracting slowly, reluctantly. His breathing steadies, and the heat fades. Not completely. Enough.

I release a quiet breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

Brock stares down at our joined hands, then at me. Confusion crosses his face — the same confusion I'm feeling, because neither of us understands what just happened.

"Your ankle." The words come out rough.

I glance down. The skin is already turning red. Brock crouches immediately, concern replacing fury so quickly it gives me whiplash.

"Can you stand?"

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I prefer optimism."

His face stiffens. "Juniper."