I sit up, and the comforter falls away from me as I glance around the empty room.
“Kian?” I call, leaning over to peer into the bathroom. The light’s off, but I shove the blankets aside and crawl out of bed to double check anyway.
I flip the switch, and the bathroom light flickers on with an audible hum. Nothing’s out of place—a towel is draped over the curtain rod, but otherwise it’s clean and empty.
Maybe he went for coffee, I tell myself with a shrug. Or breakfast. Shifters have notoriously large appetites, and after the workout we gave each other last night, he probably woke up starved. Hell, I’m starved.
I cross to the coffee pot and check the selection of Keurig cups for something potable. Last night, I walked past this table and noted a nice gold watch and a handful of change lying next to the Styrofoam cups. The change is still there, but the watch is gone.
Watches are meant to be worn, I remind myself, even as a sinking feeling starts to settle in my stomach. He put it on. That’s all.
I open every drawer beneath the television, my heart racing. Then I hurry back to the bathroom area and check the built-in closet—the hangers are empty, and so is the closet.
All of Kian’s possessions are gone.
I locate my dress draped over a chair, then find my high heels under the bed where I remember Kian kicking them in his haste to get me on the mattress. Pausing by the large mirror next to the television, I smooth my hair down, take a few deep, centering breaths, then leave the room.
The front lobby has very little natural light thanks to the giant overhang out front, and the fluorescents tinge everything a sickly yellow. My high heels clack too loudly on the cracked linoleum as I bypass a sad “continental breakfast” display of bagels and fruit and head for the front desk.
I recognize the short, squat, toad-looking man behind the counter as the same individual who was here when we stumbled in last night. His shiny blue Oxford shirt is rumpled with a pale stain near his breast pocket, and the dark circles beneath his eyes look big enough to drown in.
As I sidle up to the desk trying to look like I’m in control of the situation, he leers at my breasts and asks, “May I help you?”
Ugh. Lecherous old creep. I know I still look thoroughly fucked, and anybody with eyes can see it, but I’m not here for his goddamn entertainment.
I snap my fingers near my face. “Eyes up here, buddy. I’m looking for Kian—” I break off, realizing I don’t actually know Kian’s last name. “The guy in Room 112. Have you seen him?”
The clerk shrugs. “Lots of people staying here.”
I briefly consider reaching across the desk and slamming his face onto the keyboard, but I refrain. “Perhaps you could check the computer?”
His eyes narrow, but I don’t think he’s tough enough to wanna rumble with me. He grabs the mouse and clicks a few times, his rheumy eyes on the glowing screen. Then he grins—a little too happily—and says, “Room 112. David Neal. Checked out this morning.”
“Dav—” I shake my head. “No, his name…”
Trailing off, I swallow hard. Am I supposed to be surprised that Kian gave a false name when he booked this place? I mean hell, he’s a shifter. We’re paranoid on the best of days, especially when surrounded by humans.
The clerk’s smile widens. “What’s wrong? Did he leave without paying your fee?”
“Go fuck a bridge,” I tell him sweetly, then slip out the door before I lose even more dignity than I already have.
Dark clouds race quickly across the horizon. A storm is brewing over pack lands, which means I’ll be running right into it on the way home. The electric charge in the air reminds me of the feeling I had last night during the hunt. The unsettled sensation that sent me into town to get laid.
To get my heart broken.
By the time I reach the barn where I left my pack last night, the strange, tingling feeling I’ve felt since I realized Kian’s things were gone has turned my stomach to rock. I can’t breathe—the rock is pressing on my lungs, and my heart is an aching, twisted knot. As I strip from my heels and dress, I struggle to get a full breath.
Kian’s gone.
He left, and I have no way of finding him. I don’t know his full name. He didn’t leave me a note. A number.
As I shift to wolf form, I expect the ache to go away, but it doesn’t. Not even when I fall into a sprint over the plains. Not when the rain begins to fall. Not when I reach a speed where I can’t tell where my legs end and the earth begins. I’m flying, flying, and my heart is frozen.
My mate has left me. I know that’s what he is; I know he felt the moment we made the connection, too.
But he left anyway.