And why would that give me a headache, anyway? Or the idea of finding a mate? Hideaway’s my home. Creating a family here, bringing them into the Sweets’ pack, would be the best thing to ever happen.
His head throbbed.
No, that can’t be it. It must have been the weather change coming in. It was ludicrous to think that the unease coiling in Arlo’s stomach and pounding at his skull might be because he was worried about finding his mate.
A spray of salt water burst over the port side of the boat and Arlo jerked, automatically scanning the water for what could have caused the disturbance.
He couldn’t see anything; even the distant lights from the nearest human town were barely a glow on the horizon, and he was far enough from Hideaway that he couldn’t sense any of his shifter friends or neighbors.
But, just in case…
He sent out a cautious telepathic signal. *Hello?*
There was no reply. Arlo relaxed. Just a stray wave. He was alone out here. Just him and his migraine.
God knows what I’d do if someone did pop by and
want a chat, he thought glumly. Bite their head off, probably.
He released the anchor, trying to transform the relief he’d felt at realizing he was still alone into real relaxation. It didn’t work. The headache was like a hammer, beating hot, sharp knocks on the back of his head. Constant. Frustrating. It was like…
It’s like someone’s trying to get my attention.
Arlo’s shoulders tensed. He tentatively extended his shifter powers, checking for any telltale echoes of other shifters in the area. Nothing.
He shook his head and winced as it throbbed.
Nothing. Nothing certain, at least. Just a hint, a suggestion, of someone at the other end of the constant thudding in his head.
Arlo growled. This had better not be one of Jools’ pranks… But, no, that wouldn’t be like her. Jools’ jokes were stupid, but they never hurt anyone.
This was something new. Or someone new.
Arlo groaned. He’d slipped out of Hideaway before dawn to avoid having to talk to anyone, not to trip over a new arrival and play welcoming committee.
A lost new arrival, apparently. Hideaway Cove was miles away, and that would explain why they were knocking on his skull like it was a door and they were after directions.
He’d dropped anchor as he debated with himself, and the boat swung towards the coast with the movement of water. It wasn’t much, a few yards closer to land, but it was enough.
The psychic attack hit him like a sledgehammer. He sprawled over the deck, gasping.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Ignoring this wasn’t a possibility.
He threw himself back at the anchor and began to raise it. Sails—he needed to let the sails down. Set a course for land. The clamor in his head almost blinded him and he squinted through streaming eyes.
It hurt. God, it hurt. Almost beyond bearing.
He should turn back. Find Harrison. Harrison would deal with this better than he could. Arlo was sure to fuck it up—if he even got there in time and didn’t pass out from the pain.
But he couldn’t. There might not be time. He couldn’t even look at the point on the coast he was aiming at. It seemed to shimmer, crackling with the weight of the psychic force coming from it.
He couldn’t have done anything else. He knew the emotions roaring like wildfire out across the water. It wasn’t an attack—not a deliberate one, at least.
It was fear, and sorrow, and confusion. And loneliness so sharp it felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He’d been there before. It was too familiar.
But that wasn’t what made him urge his boat faster toward the shore. That sheer force of telepathic power, the solid weight of emotion carried with it… he couldn’t imagine any adult shifter being so open.
The headache that had been plaguing him all day, the wall of pain and fear—it was a shifter child, crying out for help.