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, fifty-fifty was worth a shot.
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