Free The Twisted Kiss: Doomsyear, Book 1 by Anya Bast Page B

made no sound of pain, but Kylie knew the process hurt.
    Finally, an enormous black wolf stood in the middle of her foyer. He shook himself once, ridding himself of the scraps of clothing, looked back at her and Michael, then leapt through the doorway into the living room with one smooth, rippling move.
    Somewhere at the back of the house, something growled. Christian answered with his own growl and Louis—it had to be him—snarled in response.
    “Oh, God,” she breathed, her hand going to her mouth. “I can’t believe this is happening.” She gripped Michael’s arm. “Gun. I need my gun, right now.” She bolted up the stairs toward her bedroom. She couldn’t let Louis hurt Christian or Michael.
    Memories slammed into her as she pounded up the stairs and ran into her bedroom, images of Louis how he used to be…and how he was now. Michael stood sentinel at the door as she flung her closet door open, grabbed the handgun on the top shelf and checked it for a cartridge.
    Downstairs, furniture crashed amid a flurry of snarling and growling. Kylie dashed toward the door, but Michael caught her around the waist.
    She fought him, trying to pull away. She was responsible for Louis being the way he was; it was her place to put him down. Tears streamed down her cheeks. This was her worst nightmare made real.
    Michael was around fifty times stronger than she was. All he had to do was pick her up, turn around and walk back into the room. It didn’t matter how much she kicked and flailed. “Michael, let me go! I can’t let this happen. I can’t—”
    He threw her down onto the bed. She looked up at him, seething, hand wrapped firmly around the gun’s handle.
    Michael’s fangs were still out. The lines of his face looked brutal. “Christian can handle him. You’re staying with me so I can keep you safe.”
    Downstairs, the sounds of battle reached a crescendo, making Kylie’s blood turn to icy slush in her veins. Something yelped and all went quiet.
    She looked up at Michael, breathing heavily. “You better be right,” she rasped through a too-tight throat. “I will never forgive myself if something happens to Christian.”
    He inched to the door and peered out. The house had gone still. He held up a hand in her direction. “You stay here,” he whispered. “I’m going down to check. If something comes up those stairs that isn’t me or Christian, use that gun.”
    She nodded, her breath coming shallow.
    He eased into the hallway and down the stairs. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying Christian was all right.
    Low, pained breathing drew her from her prayers. Her heartbeat momentarily arrested, she slid from the bed with a nearly silent swoosh of fabric and wrapped both hands around the gun, pointing the muzzle at the doorway.
    A soft, dragging sound met her ears, a muted shuffling noise mated with the labored breathing of a wounded animal.
    Eyes wide, she swallowed a whimper of fear. She knew what it was in that hallway; she could smell it. Her whole body shook when what was left of Louis rounded toward her in the doorway.
    His form was coated with dark, sticky blood and open wounds from his battle with Christian’s wolf. His deformed body hulked in the doorway, small black eyes peering at her from a face that was forever caught between human and wolf, a grotesque mixture that twisted the viewer’s mind. He opened his mouth to reveal bloody fangs, like that of a vampire’s—fangs that had probably ripped into Christian’s body.
    She raised her gun and pointed straight at Louis’s head. Her body shook, but her hands didn’t. Louis narrowed his eyes and growled, making all the hair on her body raise. Still, she couldn’t make herself shoot him.
    This was her fault.
    She would be able to shoot in defense of Michael or Christian, but not in defense of herself. If Louis leapt across the room and tore her apart right now, she would let him. She deserved it.
    But Louis didn’t budge. He only stared at her,