According to Sam, a werewolf could not break their society laws. Once an Elder declared a law, it became an ingrained piece of the werewolf. Sam had compared it to a hypnotist. The werewolves heard the law, could contemplate it, have opinions about it, but followed the law regardless of their thoughts and feelings. Most laws made sense and werewolves didn’t try to fight them, but even when a werewolf disagreed with a law, there was no choice other than to obey it.

At least, no one had proven otherwise. However, I’d overheard Sam speaking with another Elder about several instances where a Forlorn had ignored certain aspects of their laws, which made the relationship between the pack and Forlorn even more strained.

Sam sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“He was here last night to help keep the peace. He didn’t come to be Introduced to you.”

At least that explained his presence by the door and not in the line with the rest of them. My conspiracy theory that Sam had set me up shriveled.

“There are two things I can promise you. Though he is technically Forlorn, he’s always followed pack rules. He has no issue with humans. With him, you are safe. His control over the change is unusually strong.”

When over stimulated, the change could burst upon a werewolf with less than adequate control. Sam had drilled that into me when I first started hanging out with Paul and Henry unsupervised. He didn’t want me to freak out if one of them went wolf on me for no reason. He’d stressed that whether in their fur or in their skin, they had the same intelligence and instinct. The change was just a defense mechanism because in their fur, they had teeth and claws to fight. So, what he meant was Clay had control, and he kept his emotions in check.

“And he won’t give up,” Sam added.

Clay hadn’t been looking for a Mate like most werewolves did once they reached puberty. Did that give me any advantage? I doubted it. Sam had repeatedly stressed that instinct ruled this business. And fighting instinct proved extremely difficult for werewolves. So Sam’s final warning was a given. Once they scented their Mate, they couldn’t turn back. I sighed. Why couldn’t werewolves get strategically-timed head colds like the rest of us?

“All right, where is he?”

“I think he’s still tinkering with my truck. Try there.”

Sam slid back under his covers, and I turned off the lights for him before walking out the door. My sock-covered feet, the only thing on me that didn’t seem too dirty, muffled the sound of my passing. By the front door, I found my mud-caked shoes and put them on. They hadn’t been that dirty when I’d taken them off at the motel. I couldn’t believe he’d put them back on me before abducting me. Had I really been that tired? Maybe there’d been something wrong with that water. But why were my shoes caked with mud if he’d carried me?

Chapter 5

When I stepped out the door, the sun, already high in the cloudless sky, shone brightly. Moving off the porch, I closed my eyes for a moment and tilted my head back to soak in the warmth. The sound of a ratchet drew me back to my purpose.

I found Clay right where Sam had said, his torso bent over the grill of the pickup. He looked closely at the engine. Purposefully relaxing my shoulders, I started toward the truck. The yard was empty compared to yesterday. It left Clay more room to spread out the pieces he continued to remove.

Slowing my approach, I studied him a bit. The mid-day sun didn’t make him look any better than he had in last night’s shadows. He still wore that heavy jacket, despite the warm day, and some type of very dirty, baggy cargo pants. His bare feet looked surprisingly clean after walking miles last night, then carrying or dragging me back.

I looked at his feet again, then down at my shoes. No way! How were his feet cleaner than my shoes? He couldn’t have worn my shoes; his feet were bigger than mine. Didn’t Sam just tell me he had complete control over his change? Couldn’t he have partially shifted his feet? Maybe. It still didn’t explain how I slept through being carried.

He continued his examination of the truck. I knew he could hear me coming, but I waited to speak until I stood next to the detached hood.

“We weren’t officially introduced last night. My name’s Gabby. Gabrielle May Winters.” I tucked my hands in my back pockets and hoped I wouldn’t have to shake his hand or anything.

He straightened, turned toward me, and gave me his undivided attention. I didn’t think it possible, but he was even dirtier than I’d first believed. Long hair hung in clotted strands obscuring his eyes while his unkempt facial hair covered the rest of his face. I kept my thoughts about his hygiene to myself.

At no less than six feet to my five-five, he intimidated me, and I fought not to show it. His continued silence didn’t help matters. It puzzled me until I remembered Sam’s comments about his upbringing. Maybe he didn’t even have the social skills to return a greeting.

There had to be a way out of this. Please let there be a way out of this.

“Sam said that your name is Clay.” I waited for some type of acknowledgement, but didn’t get one. He just continued to look at me. At least, I assumed I had his attention. I couldn’t really see his eyes to know for sure.

“Listen, Clay, I know you think I’m the one for you...”

I decided to change my approach. Choosing my words carefully, I started again.

“I don’t have a sense of smell to depend on, like you do. Although the Elders say to trust the instinct of werewolves, I don’t trust blindly.”

He didn’t move. How was I supposed to know if he understood what I was saying? We stood maybe five feet apart with the front quarter panel of the truck separating us. I couldn’t read his expression or anything in his body language to hint at what he might be thinking. I decided just to say what I wanted.

“I really want to go home. If I asked to borrow someone else’s car, would it live?”

He turned away and continued with his examination of the truck, his body language, finally, easy to translate.

“Ok. I’ll take that as a no,” I mumbled more to myself than him.

He surprised me by turning back toward me again. I struggled to decipher his mood from his face. His ridiculously long and shaggy facial hair obliterated any trace of a smile or frown.

“Clay, I’m not trying to be rude here, but I’m struggling to figure us out. What’s the plan?”

No visible response.

“Am I just supposed to stay here until you decide I’m not really your Mate?” I hated saying that word.

Again, nothing.

“Would it help speed things along if we spent a little time together?”

This time a shrug. One-way conversations rarely worked well when trying to get to know someone.

“Do you talk?”

And again, I lost his attention to the truck engine.

“Ok. No talking. Got it.”

Did being raised in his fur mean he’d turned feral? The thought of spending time with a Tarzan mentality werewolf worried me. Who knew what he might do? Only Sam’s assurance of my safety eased my fear before it could fully take hold. No, he couldn’t be feral. He appeared to understand everything I said. For whatever reason, it seemed that Clay had no intention to speak to me.

I sighed, pulled my hands from my back pockets, and leaned against the truck. Chin in hands, I watched him check the different fluids.

“You seemed to like the idea of spending time to get to know each other,” I said. He turned toward me again. “But what’s the point in spending time together if you don’t want to talk to me? Isn’t the point to get to know one another?”

And he turned back to the truck. Good to know the windshield washer fluid was getting low.

Frustrated, I wanted to kick a truck tire but figured I’d just hurt my toe. Instead, I walked back to the main entrance. The one-sided conversation hadn’t given me any useful information. Why keep me here if he didn’t want to talk to me? And he obviously wanted me here. First, he’d killed Sam’s truck. Then, he’d brought me back to the Compound in the middle of the night after letting me walk for hours. That reminded me...I needed a shower badly.