Pride's Run by Cat Kalen Page B

look on Clover’s face, the
one that reeked of resignation and utter loss. It’s permanently
etched in my memories and will always remind me of my mission.
    Then I think of Stone, and what he wants from
me. I can only guess the chaotic sequence of numbers running though
his broken mind was some sort of countdown to our mating. As
anxiousness mingles with rage, I use it, absorb it, and let it fuel
the determination coursing through my veins.
    A bump in the road and the flash of a highway
sign have my thoughts careening back to the present. I’m able to
read, Olympic National Park, Port Angeles, Washington through the blurry, rain soaked window before the plush SUV I’m
traveling in speeds past.
    I steal a glance around and try to gather my
bearings. I’ve never been taken so far away from home before and I
can’t help but think how close we are to the Canadian border, to
where those packs of wolves are rumored to run free. Wolves who
hunt together and take care of each other. Wolves who haven’t been
confined and don’t live by the same rules as we do—each wolf for
himself.
    Could such a place really exist? Do I dare
hope?
    Needing to occupy my thoughts to keep my
emotions from getting the better of me, I consider the clothes Miss
Kara dressed me in as I work to desensitize. My too tight-jeans
feel like a second skin and could undoubtedly be considered
provocative to some. The soft pink spaghetti-strap tank top clings
to my body and douses my pale cheeks with a hint of color. Miss
Kara fitted me with a lacy push up bra to give me a hint of
cleavage, and while I don’t think it suits me that well, it does
make me feel feminine and maybe even a little pretty.
    My long blonde curls are left loose and
pinned in the front to better frame my face. My makeup is light and
summer-time fresh, and the sticky gloss tinting my lips tastes like
sweet watermelon. I can’t seem to stop licking it. But I think the
action has more to do with my nervousness and less to do with the
sweet, fruity flavor.
    My look is a youthful one, which leads me to
believe the mark is close to my age. Of course, I won’t be given
his picture until moments before my hunt. I’m never told any more
than I need to know, but my cover story, however, is usually
the same. I’m new in town, a junior in high school, and I’m out
looking to make a few friends before I begin classes.
    We drive in strained silence, no music, no
talking, only the hum of the wheels on the wet pavement and the
drone of the wipers to cut through my thoughts. I should probably
use this time to catch up on sleep, I barely captured a wink over
the last two nights, but the closer we get to our destination, the
more restless my wolf grows.
    She can almost taste the freedom.
    Not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention
to my apprehensive state, I press shaky hands over my stomach and
calm her. She settles slightly and hunches low, waiting.
    Twenty minutes later we pull into a busy
parking lot. The big SUV looks completely out of place as the
driver squeezes it between two smaller vehicles. My muscles tense
and I sit up straighter, scanning the area and taking in as much as
I can.
    From what I can tell we’re sitting outside a
motel in Port Angeles. At the far end, attached by a breezeway
there is a restaurant or pub of some sort. Music pours from the
open windows and above the long, aging building a neon sign
advertising ‘vacancy’ is flashing in an erratic pattern.
    Moments before the driver turns the car off,
the handler to my right cracks his window. I instantly notice the
dip in temperature. Wherever we are we must be at a higher
elevation. At home in the valley the air is warm and sultry, even
this late at night. Here in this mountain town, with the huge,
snow-capped peaks providing a gorgeous backdrop to the motel, there
is a bite in the air, one I’ve never quite felt before. My wolf
bristles, anxious to climb those hills and feel that cool wind
whipping across her