ears, much too close for comfort. Limbs starting to twitch and dance, Dylan stayed crouched, knowing he should take off, get clear of public places. Knowing he should run off the boundless energy of the beast, and that if he didn’t scram and the cop car got any closer…
He took one more look down the block.
The police car was weaving.
Merely a couple buildings away now, the noise stopped abruptly, leaving a phantomlike disturbance in the close atmosphere of the night, and Dylan’s eardrums throbbing. The black and white car straddled the white line drunkenly as it approached, then lurched to the right, jumping the curb with both front wheels, missing a streetlight by inches. It shuddered to a stop. The engine died with the headlights still on.
Dylan slid sideways, still low to the pavement, watching as the driver’s side door opened with a crack of the bolts and an officer jumped out quickly. Leaving the door open, heaving back to lean against the metal with a thump Dylan could easily hear, the officer, clearly agitated, tossed off his hat and shook his head.
Make that her head.
A cascade of dark hair tumbled out from under the hat, dark as the night and long enough to cover the officer’s shoulders.
The bizarre behavior didn’t stop there.
As though her uniform were on fire, the cop grabbed for her belt, undid the buckle, and threw it inside the car—gun, stick and whatever the hell else they kept around their waists. With jerky hands, red in the reflected light from the flashers, she went for her shirt next, scratching at the buttons. Like a madwoman, she tore the fabric from her arms and threw it into the car, then spun in place once, hitting the door hard, bounding back to a splayed-legged stance.
Next she went at her bullet-proof vest.
The unmistakable rip of Velcro fastenings being torn apart was the only sound remaining on an otherwise now extremely quiet crook of road.
This cop was a real cop. Dylan wasn’t imagining it. Not only was it the strangest thing he’d ever seen, the event seemed out of time… Removed from reality.
The cop flung her vest aside, revealing a fitted white short-sleeved T-shirt tucked in at the waist of her pants. Dylan glanced down at his arms, covered in light brown fur. He moved his hair-covered fingers. He was a wolf-man hybrid, yes, but he was all male just the same.
He looked up at the cop.
If she goes for the T-shirt…
In a flash, the T-shirt was over her head. Hair spilled across tanned shoulders like liquid darkness being poured from the sky above. Moonlight streaked the darkness with a pearlescent sheen.
Dylan rose to half his full six-foot-two height, ignoring the sound of his ligaments extending, withholding a growl.
She wore a black bra. Not only was this a surprise, but an unexpected turn-on. Never would he have imagined sexy lingerie beneath a crisp, pressed, unisex uniform. Sure, maybe he’d fantasized about such a thing when he had an attractive female officer in the witness box, but…
When she reached for her zipper, Dylan straightened completely—and everywhere a male body could. Vying for his attention though, came a wayward premonition that pummeled him square in the gut.
No. Couldn’t be.
He shifted his weight, feeling a bit of a voyeur, unable to move. The sudden premonition had brought with it a chill.
She’d dropped the pants down around her ankles, then leaned over to rip at the laces of her regulation shoes. Shoes off. Socks off. Pants off. She wore nothing now but the sheer black bra and a matching pair of tiny underwear.
Dylan made an appreciative grunt. The woman had a spectacular body. Lean muscles and elegant curves. Long neck. Long legs. Delicate ankles. She filled the black bra nicely.
Her hips were rounded, feminine, vastly alluring. Her thighs were those of a runner. She was, against all odds—and every human male prayer for this very sort of occurrence—standing in the street, beside her car, for all intents and purposes…naked. And all that dark hair of hers, straight and shiny and nearly as black as her underclothes, settled velvet-like around her face as she stood up, half covering her features.
Dylan’s premonition kicked maniacally at his mind.
How long had this odd striptease taken? Three minutes? Five?
What other explanation could there be?
The officer had shed her clothes—perhaps just as she was about to shed her skin and much of what made her human. The woman was about to become what he was. Maybe for the first time.
Or, Jesus, maybe she’d become something altogether different?
His beast was very interested in this. Seemed the sight of the woman’s exquisite body had diluted his own sense of survival.
Leaping from the curb, Dylan saw the woman’s body begin to twitch. Her head flew back. He heard the crack of her spine and responded as if the sound were a supernatural plea for help.
His beast’s howl preceded him as he raced toward her. The woman stood there, unseeing. As Dylan, in his man-wolf form, reached her, her expression became visible. Dark, wide, frightened eyes in a face strained white. Long nose. High, arched brows. Mouth open in a silent cry.
Her hands were raised before her, the smooth skin starting to bubble as though something boiled underneath. Something waiting to get out. It was the “push.” Had to be. Her legs would go first, then her shoulders. She shook her head, fighting whatever was taking her over.
None of her training would help her here.
Her flimsy underthings tore with a very small sound that would have been erotic to any male on the planet, and certainly was to a wolf. The tearing of the scrap of lace hit him like the call of the wild. Although his libido had no place here and Dylan wanted desperately to help this woman, his beast’s hard-on would have been envied by a stallion.
The woman doubled over the second Dylan reached her. Her muscles were shifting all right, hence the generic name for what she had to be. Shapeshifter.
Dylan didn’t touch her, though he allowed a growl of warning to emerge. The sound brought her gaze to his. She staggered backwards, shocked by what she saw. Hell, he would have been shocked by his appearance, too.
Frantically, the woman looked toward the flashing lights, then back to him—or what was left of him in the beast’s presence. Her eyes were green, flecked with gold, half-covered with dark lashes, unblinking. She couldn’t fathom this. She couldn’t even run.
Shock tipped her over the edge. Her lovely face began to transition. The full-lipped mouth flattened into a pained expression. Her eyes started to glaze over.
Dylan watched, reliving the horror. In the past six months he had barely come to terms with his own dilemma. The first change had been so terrible, he’d banned it from memory. He’d been in denial, with no elder to lead the way, no kind hand of support.
The thought made him sicker inside. Where were her people? Her family? Her police partners? He’d never heard of a female strain of the curse. Had she been bitten? Was she something else, other than wolf?
He had to do something to help her. Her bones were beginning to snap. A whine of pain escaped from her throat.
In a swift move, and without thinking, Dylan picked her up. He held her close as her body convulsed, rocking along with her. With his own beast’s strength, he tightened his grip, unwilling to see her face morph. Such a beautiful face.
Turning, he sprinted for shelter. Sometimes, hiding from the moonlight was enough to stop or slow the change. Maybe it would work for the woman who felt so very light and fragile his arms, though she rode the streets of Miami with a badge and a gun.
And maybe it wouldn’t help.
Still,