Free Love of the Wild by Susan Laine Page B

anyone had thought.
    Stumbling over rocks and tree roots, Jim put distance between him and the man he now knew would never be his—friend, mate, whatever.
    “Holy shit, he hurt you?”
    Jim started when Crow spoke out sharply as he came up the path. First concern, then fury colored his expressive face.
    Jim shook his head. “My fault. I tried to kiss him. Guess he’d rather be alone. I know I’m not a catch—”
    “No.” Crow reached him and rested his hands on Jim’s hips, steadying him. “You’re beautiful, Jim: full of light, life, and energy. Dak doesn’t know what he’s missing. The dumbass.” He put his arm around Jim’s shoulders, sheltering him from further hurt. Jim was touched by the gesture. “Come. I’ll take you back to the ranch.”
    Nodding, Jim allowed himself to be led away. He realized he no longer gave a damn about the story he had come here to write. He didn’t want Dak’s hate. He didn’t want any part of this world where he was expected to give up his loved ones, his career—such as it was—his dreams.
    As far as epiphanies went, the one that overcame Jim then was crystal clear.
    I want to go home .

Chapter 9
     
    “D AMMIT .”
    This was hardly the first time Jim had cursed at the white computer screen before him, a blank page waiting to be filled with words—and he had none to give. Even if there was a story in his encounter with werewolves, he didn’t wish to relive those days.
    He’d been home for two weeks, but he still dreamed about Dak. Unfortunately, few of them were hot and delicious and sexy. Most were composed of furious growls, chases through the woods for his life, and violence of all sorts, even death. Jim often woke up with a start, cold sweat clinging to his skin, his frightened heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.
    And in addition to his body and instincts succumbing to the fear, now his writer’s mind was failing him too. Portland, Oregon, was showing its rainy face today, as it had for the past four days, and Jim found himself staring numbly at the watery streaks on his apartment window.
    Daniel had seemed almost stricken to see Jim leave, and Jim had felt sorry for him. Having a leader for his people who was a total recluse must be hard. Jim wondered if Dak had always been that way. Considering the way Daniel looked up to him, Jim doubted this had been the case.
    Crow, on the other hand, had given Jim his contact information and advised him to get in touch with him about anything, day or night. Jim had appreciated the offer, but he was pretty sure he was going to be putting that world behind him. Crow had warned that now that Jim had come into direct contact with a progenitor, his pheromones would attract any and all of his kind. Jim had to be careful.
    That counsel had led to Jim not leaving his apartment for over a week. He even bought groceries online and had them delivered. He knew he couldn’t live like this for long. It wasn’t just a matter of dwindling finances, but his job expected him to travel. If he didn’t, he’d have nothing to write about. Then he’d get fired. And being forty-four didn’t exactly guarantee him a new job, let alone a better one.
    With his thoughts at once a mess and idle, he stared at the Columbia River, now awash with the rain, the surface foaming with droplets. Well, he was too high up to actually see it, but he had a lively imagination.
    Only at the moment, that too failed him.
    “Son of a bitch.” He cussed one last time, sighed in resignation, and closed the laptop. No point in torturing himself further. He had only two options. He’d write the werewolf story he had promised Albert Woodrow, the chief editor of the National Travel Guide he freelanced for, or he’d shelve the story and find a new one fast. Last week would have been great for that insight.
    Sluggishly, he made his way to the kitchen to make some more coffee. It wasn’t even noon yet, and he was on his third cup already. It was an exotic