Redeem the Wolf: BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance (Wolf Valley Raiders Book 1) by Harmony Raines Page A
Authors: Harmony Raines
Tags: General Fiction
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photographs and some other small mementos, she had left everything behind. He knew it was so that there was more room for him and his paintings.
He looked at the beginnings of the painting in front of him. At the fiery hair and green eyes of his mate, reaching out his conscious mind to search for her. But she wasn’t there; she was never there.
Chapter Two – Nadine
Nadine had seen the notice advertising Kurt’s painting exhibition a week ago, and knew she couldn’t attend, it wasn’t right. But the pull of him was too much. So she had allowed herself to come to stand across the road from the gallery, completely out of sight, and watch out for him. He wouldn’t see her and would have no idea she was there.
She wore a hat to cover her red hair; the fiery tones were enough to draw anyone’s eye towards her, precisely what she didn’t want. Stay out of sight; don’t let him see you . After an hour of waiting for him, even though it had become increasingly obvious he wasn’t going to attend, she knew she was the one who needed treatment for her mental disorder. She was addicted to a man she did not intend to ever meet again in real life.
While she watched, the gallery had changed from darkness to a hive of activity, but there was no sign of him. Kurt wasn’t here. If he was, she would feel it, she was sure. When he had been in her care she had felt a trickle of excitement run down her spine, the small hairs rising as her skin begged to be touched by him when he was close.
She has shut her longing away, knowing it was a fantasy; he was her patient, and felt nothing for her. Maybe he was too damaged to feel the bond between them. Or maybe the whole thing was a figment of her overactive imagination. She was probably screwed up from treating so many shifters who had lost control of their other side.
Nadine had always known she was different. That was why she took on the job of treating other shifters. In all her years of experience, Kurt was the first one to actually touch her in any meaningful way. She was sure it was the mating bond, but it was supposed to work two ways. And he gave her nothing to work with.
Other people began to arrive, filling the gallery and looking at his paintings, the paintings she had encouraged him to paint. It had been wonderful to watch him blossom from an animal who grunted in answer to questions to the man who could paint a wolf so realistic you could reach out and touch it. She wanted to look at them once more, and the pull of the gallery, even minus its tortured artist, was too much.
You are going to regret this , she thought, as she rushed across the road, hat held firmly down on her head, with her free hand clutching her coat to her throat to ward off the autumn chill. The evening was getting late, and she told her internal voice that she would take a look and then get out of there. Ten minutes and she would have satisfied her curiosity and be gone. No harm: he would never know.
“Hello, welcome to the gallery,” a young woman said, offering her a glass of wine and a catalogue.
“Thank you.” She wanted to ask if Kurt was going to make an appearance, but she couldn’t say his name without the voice in her head screaming for him. Yes, definitely a sign of her own insanity. It was why she had trained to help those who were stuck in their animal form.
Because she was stuck in her human form.
Silencing her inner voice, she sipped her wine and made her way over to the first paintings. The mountain, of course, he had told her about it while he painted, his brush flying over the canvas as if he could purge the memories from his mind. Had it worked?
Moving on to the next paintings, she looked at images of wolves, single wolves, their coats thick, snow covering them to turn them white. A pack, all howling. None of himself. She had seen him as a wolf, had scars to prove it. Unconsciously, she touched her arm, the marks where his claws had gouged at her skin a permanent
He looked at the beginnings of the painting in front of him. At the fiery hair and green eyes of his mate, reaching out his conscious mind to search for her. But she wasn’t there; she was never there.
Chapter Two – Nadine
Nadine had seen the notice advertising Kurt’s painting exhibition a week ago, and knew she couldn’t attend, it wasn’t right. But the pull of him was too much. So she had allowed herself to come to stand across the road from the gallery, completely out of sight, and watch out for him. He wouldn’t see her and would have no idea she was there.
She wore a hat to cover her red hair; the fiery tones were enough to draw anyone’s eye towards her, precisely what she didn’t want. Stay out of sight; don’t let him see you . After an hour of waiting for him, even though it had become increasingly obvious he wasn’t going to attend, she knew she was the one who needed treatment for her mental disorder. She was addicted to a man she did not intend to ever meet again in real life.
While she watched, the gallery had changed from darkness to a hive of activity, but there was no sign of him. Kurt wasn’t here. If he was, she would feel it, she was sure. When he had been in her care she had felt a trickle of excitement run down her spine, the small hairs rising as her skin begged to be touched by him when he was close.
She has shut her longing away, knowing it was a fantasy; he was her patient, and felt nothing for her. Maybe he was too damaged to feel the bond between them. Or maybe the whole thing was a figment of her overactive imagination. She was probably screwed up from treating so many shifters who had lost control of their other side.
Nadine had always known she was different. That was why she took on the job of treating other shifters. In all her years of experience, Kurt was the first one to actually touch her in any meaningful way. She was sure it was the mating bond, but it was supposed to work two ways. And he gave her nothing to work with.
Other people began to arrive, filling the gallery and looking at his paintings, the paintings she had encouraged him to paint. It had been wonderful to watch him blossom from an animal who grunted in answer to questions to the man who could paint a wolf so realistic you could reach out and touch it. She wanted to look at them once more, and the pull of the gallery, even minus its tortured artist, was too much.
You are going to regret this , she thought, as she rushed across the road, hat held firmly down on her head, with her free hand clutching her coat to her throat to ward off the autumn chill. The evening was getting late, and she told her internal voice that she would take a look and then get out of there. Ten minutes and she would have satisfied her curiosity and be gone. No harm: he would never know.
“Hello, welcome to the gallery,” a young woman said, offering her a glass of wine and a catalogue.
“Thank you.” She wanted to ask if Kurt was going to make an appearance, but she couldn’t say his name without the voice in her head screaming for him. Yes, definitely a sign of her own insanity. It was why she had trained to help those who were stuck in their animal form.
Because she was stuck in her human form.
Silencing her inner voice, she sipped her wine and made her way over to the first paintings. The mountain, of course, he had told her about it while he painted, his brush flying over the canvas as if he could purge the memories from his mind. Had it worked?
Moving on to the next paintings, she looked at images of wolves, single wolves, their coats thick, snow covering them to turn them white. A pack, all howling. None of himself. She had seen him as a wolf, had scars to prove it. Unconsciously, she touched her arm, the marks where his claws had gouged at her skin a permanent
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