The End
Also by Anna Edwards
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About the Author
Anna Edwards is a British author from the depths of the rural countryside near London. When she has some spare time, she can also be found writing poetry, baking cakes (and eating them), or behind a camera snapping like a mad paparazzo. She’s an avid reader who turned to writing to combat her depression and anxiety. She has a love of traveling and likes to bring this to her stories to give them the air of reality. She likes her heroes hot and hunky with a dirty mouth, her heroines demure but with spunk, and her books full of dramatic suspense.
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Part II
Bearskin
Brianna Hale
Blurb
He saved her from the wolves, but who’ll save her from him?
Carys is on the run from a wolfpack when she takes refuge in my cabin. She’s everything I crave after decades of solitude and pain, yet she doesn’t even know what she is.
Those aren’t wolves chasing her. Carys is no ordinary woman. And I’m no ordinary man.
Now the wolves are howling at my door, and the fight of my life is a fight for her.
A fight for my mate.
A fight to the death.
Chapter One
Carys
First, I fled from men.
With my baby in my arms, I flounder through snowdrifts, praying that the sun will rise over the hills. I’ve been running all night and the cold is so severe that it bites through my clothes, stings my ears and freezes the tears on my cheeks. After miles and miles of frozen ground, every bank of snow is starting to look as inviting as a feather bed, but I know if I lay down, Finley and I will never wake again.
Wolves were stalking among the cottages at night and killing the chickens and goats. The villagers took up pitchforks and drove me out.
The wolves want me, they said.
The women claim I’m a witch, and that I’ve lain with a wolf and my baby is a half-wolf and will grow up to murder them all. I’m a foundling, and they’ve never trusted me. With their pitchforks and flaming torches, they forced me from my parents’ home and out into the dark forest.
Now, I flee from the wolves.
Behind me, the wolves are baying and snapping their jaws. They hang back, as if chasing me is sport for them. I hear a harsh, heavy grunt up ahead, too deep for a wolf. A shape moves through the woods. Disembodied yellow eyes glimmer, and a scream wells up in my throat. In my arms, Finley cries, the sound high and sharp and carried on the wind.
The eyes blink out.
Something huge leaps right at me. I scream and curl my body around Finley. The wind whips, and whatever the thing is, it passes right over me and races toward the wolves. Without looking behind me, I stagger to my feet and run up the slope.
And face-first into a tree.
Pain bursts in my brow and stars flash behind my eyes. I lurch through the snowdrifts, tears and blood pouring down my face. Finley screams and screams. There’s a snarling roar, and then a high-pitched yelp behind us. Even more yelping.
Whatever that beast is, it’s fighting the wolves.
“Let them tear each other apart,” I gasp, hurrying up the hill, hoping to crest it and get away from the mayhem behind me. As I climb, my chest rasps and my head grows dizzy. One foot in front of the other, dragging breath into my lungs between trying to hush Finley.
My foot catches on a rock or a root beneath the snow, and I fall in a heap. With the last of my strength, I manage to twist to the side and land on my shoulder rather than the baby. I lay there, winded, my limbs refusing to move.
No one wants me. I should just lay here and die. My shoulders shake with silent sobs for my baby, who never had a chance.
Over me, something large moves. I feel it rather than see it. I suppose that thing that chased off the wolves is going to finish me.
“Please. Not the baby,” I plead in a cracked whisper.
I’m braced for an attack, but a warm hand caresses my cheek. I feel rather than see the strong presence over me. Shielding me. Protecting me from the terror of the night. Strangely, the warm fingers trail over my jaw and lower lip, as if fascinated by them.
Strong arms lift me. They cradle me close to a solid body as I cradle the baby. Through all the blood and tears in my eyes I glimpse a cheek with a short beard. Not a beast, but a man, and a very large one.
“Be careful,” I gasp, wincing at the pain battering in my head. “There’s something out there.”
“What are you running from, kochanie?” His voice is deep and rasping, and strangely accented.
His warmth is seeping into me. He holds me as easily as I hold Finley. “A wolf pack, and another beast. I think it was a bear. Take us to your village, please. For my baby’s sake.”
I can feel his head and shoulders turning slowly as he looks around. “Wolves. And a bear,” he says softly, without inflection, I wonder if he doubts me, but he must have heard them.
He starts to walk, and each crunching step feels massive. I peer through clotted eyes and see the ground is moving fast. After just a few minutes, I see the glow of lamplight through my blurry vision and whimper in relief.
A door opens and closes, and we’re enveloped in warm air.
I’m placed on something flat and soft. Too weak to move and too blinded by blood and exhaustion, I hold Finley tight and listen to the stranger move around the room. From the sound of his footsteps, it’s not a large room, and the floor is bare boards. There’s a soft clang of metal, perhaps a kettle on a stove, and then pouring water. A few minutes later, a warm, wet cloth is pressed against my brow and wipes clean my eyes.
I blink, and I can see again.
A huge man is kneeling before me and he’s wiping my face. His hand is the size of my head. The breadth of his shoulders is as wide as a door. His arms are like tree trunks. Even kneeling, he looms over me.
I reel back in shock. I’ve never seen someone this big before. He could crush Finley and I with one hand.
His deep brown eyes widen as I shrink away. He glances down at himself, as if realizing it’s him who’s frightened me.
“Can you wake your wife, please, or another woman of the village?” I whisper. “I need help with the baby.”
“There’s no village.” Again, that strange accent and growling voice. His features are hard and pronounced, and his jaw slices away to a strong throat. He looks mid-thirties, or perhaps a little older, and his hair is shades of gold and dark brown. The clothes he wears are neat and well-made, but basic. A tunic and pants. Boots of animal hide. There’s a gash on his cheek, and it’s bleeding a little.
No wife. No village. We’re alone with him. The gratitude I felt earlier has fled. I glance nervously toward the window, covered with what looks like an old sack, and wonder how many hours it is until morning and I can leave.