Microsoft Word - Jacks-Marcy-Mated-to-the-Wild-Omega.doc OWNER (most read books in the world of all time .TXT) 📖

He just hoped he hadn’t pissed off that one hunter enough that he would want to tear the skin right off Morgan’s body the second he

92                          Marcy Jacks

captured him.

Again, the sounds of the engines grew louder as the hunters came  almost on top of Morgan.

Now that shotguns were banned, Morgan had a little more  confidence in his ability to keep away from them.

Until that other hunter pulled a handgun out of a holster under his  jacket then fired.

Morgan skidded in the snow and turned before the bullet could  make contact with him, but it missed his head by inches. It had been  so close that he felt the heat of the bullet as it soared passed.

“Get a clean shot! Get a clean shot!” someone yelled.

Right. Shotgun pellets would damage his pelt, but a single bullet  wound, provided it was the only one and it killed him, would still  make his pelt valuable to have. His heart pounded faster at the thought  that they would just outright kill him before skinning him. A better  way to go, yes, but he wanted the fighting chance. He wouldn’t let  them kill him!

Easier said than done. His lungs were starting to burn, and no matter how quickly he took in breaths of cold air, it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. There wasn’t enough oxygen to sustain him.

He was getting tired.

When hunting rabbits, wolves usually worked better with the rest of their pack around.

One wolf would chase the rabbit or whatever animal they were after in a nice big circle. When that wolf grew too tired, he would step aside as another took his place, then another, and another, until their prey became so tired that one of the wolves eventually caught it.

Morgan didn’t have any other members of his pack to take him out of the field when he got too tired, and right now, he was the prey that would get caught once he slowed down.

Still, he managed to push it for another thirty minutes before something yanked him out of his adrenaline-fueled run for his life.  Another shot sounded. This one clipped his ear, and he cried out,

Mated to the Wild Omega                     93

losing his footing for several seconds and rolling in the snow.

Fuck! That fucking hurt!

When he stopped rolling, he shook his fur out, bright-red blood  spattering all over the clean, white snow. His head throbbed and inner  ear was killing him. Morgan looked up and saw that the hunters had  overshot him when he made that sudden stop and were now turning  around to get back to him.

Morgan pushed himself back on all fours and then cried out, his  wolf whine piercing the air as one of his front paws received a jolt of  pain that went right up his bones.

He struggled to three legs, keeping his paw off the ground. He  must’ve fallen on it wrong during his fall.

He made it three leaps over the thick and heavy snow before he  was forced to stop. His heart was racing so fast, and his tongue  drooped ridiculously in an effort to cool himself down.

He no longer felt the cold. It was hot as hell outside. If he had any  sweat glands, he knew he’d be drenched.

Still, it was almost a relief to allow his body to fall into the snow.  It was sticky as all hell, but it felt as soft as a goose-feather mattress  against his body. He hardly minded it when the hunters rode up in  their snow mobiles.

They must’ve seen the state he was in because they were confident enough he was down to turn off their engines.

“Did you kill him?” asked one.

The younger one answered. “I guess so. I was aiming for his head, so, yeah, I must have.”

“There is a good amount of blood pooling at his head, but despite that, Chance, if you’d done anything other than clip him, he wouldn’t have been running those last several steps before he went down,” the leader said. Morgan could just picture the guy rubbing his chin as he thought out loud. “I think we just ran him down. He’s passed out.”

No. He wasn’t.

“We should kill him now, then,” said another hunter, and the click

94                          Marcy Jacks

of his weapon sounded as he cocked it.

An empty shell landed by Morgan’s head when he did that.

“Yeah, get the pelt while he’s still alive. The fur stays nice that  way.”

Oh, right. Maybe Morgan should do something before they could  skin him right here and now.

He focused as hard as he could on his human form, putting it into  his mind until it was all he could see. His body stretched out and his  fur fell away. He heard the loud curses of the hunters as they stepped  away from him.

Hunters always had been really strange when it came to actually  seeing a werewolf transform. It was like they were afraid of it or  something.

Finally, Morgan was human again, lying in the snow, which felt  somewhat colder against his skin now. It definitely felt a lot more  pleasant after the run he just had, and now that he had sweat glands  again, every inch of his skin started to produce moisture, and not just  the pads of his paws.

“Motherfucker!” one of the hunters yelled. It sounded like  someone kicked the side of their snow mobile in frustration.

Then an angry face came right into Morgan’s line of vision. His hair was grabbed roughly. It hurt, kind of a lot, actually, but he was too tired to care about that, or about the snarling face of that hunter he bit.

“You think this will keep us from skinning you alive, you freak?”

Morgan smiled at him. He had probably a thousand things he  could say to make the hunter all the more pissed off. He had it in  mind to announce that he’d infected the man in front of his friends,

but the smile itself seemed to do it the most.

The hunter slapped him, just like he’d done to his fellow hunter.

Morgan barely felt