Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 128087 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128087 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Ungh!” Dustin landed flat on his back as sparks of pain flamed behind his closed eyelids. He tried to turn over and get to his feet, but within seconds, the ache in his back changed from a dull warmth to red-hot needles. He bowed forward, clutching his stomach and wondering if he’d actually cracked a few ribs. “Fuck!”
He squinted in the darkness, trying to see what it was that knocked him on his ass, and cursed when he noticed a wood bench seat from the community yard lying a few feet away from him. Dustin struggled to inhale as the storm refused to show mercy. Lying there on his back, Dustin felt as if he was being tortured, like nature was waterboarding and slowly suffocating him. Dustin wanted to yell, to cry out for help, but he knew it’d be a colossal waste of his last bit of energy to be heard over the wind’s battle cry.
Get up, come on, get up. Even the thought of moving made raw agony tear at every fiber of his being. Dustin needed help—he needed his wolf—but the pain and fear was too much for him to shift. What if he’d done some permanent damage and needed medical attention? God, why did I risk his life? Dustin beat himself mentally while he lay there alone and terrified.
Gasping on silent screams, Dustin swore that he would not die like this. In a melon field, wearing a poncho and clutching a hammer to his chest. This would not be his legacy; it wasn’t how he was going to be remembered. What would his alphas or his friends—well, his farmhands—say about him? That he was a skilled rancher and he loved his crops and they loved him, and that’s why he died alongside them in a savage, unyielding storm.
No! Please! Dustin’s head pounded like someone was kicking him in the back of his skull, and he couldn’t think clearly because of the lack of oxygen to his brain. Don’t let this be my end… please… I’m not done yet. Dustin still wanted a chance to find a mate, no matter what bullshit he’d used to convince himself otherwise. He still wanted the opportunity to lie in a man’s warmth again, feel his strength and muscles as he rested beside him after a long day in the fields.
One memory, one man, rushed to the forefront of his mind as Dustin’s natural instinct to survive kicked in. His once orderly land was now littered with garbage and wreckage as the storm continued to relocate roofs and parts of cabins with no signs of stopping, and he knew if he continued to lie there stuck in the mud, he was as good as dead. No one was coming for him.
Dustin grunted painfully and turned his head to the south just as a bolt of lightning struck a tree branch over his head. With the minuscule amount of breath circulating in his lungs, he parted his trembling lips and whispered into the wind with sheer desperation.
Notalus. Help me!
Notalus
The Prince of Tir an Fhomhair, and Treasure of the Harvest
Notalus stood on the balcony overlooking his courtyard, his chest full of pride as he watched his son, Theodor, practice with his sparring coaches. Notalus’ son was by far his greatest accomplishment and the rightful heir to Tir an Fhomhair, the Realm of Autumn. Theodor fought five men at once, never breaking a sweat as he moved his strong body with the precision and speed of a viper. His hip-length whiskey-and-copper-colored tresses caught on the wind he summoned as he propelled three of his attackers several feet into the air. Notalus nodded with fatherly approval when his son quickly bested the last two with their bared throats at the sharp end of his sword, which glistened bronze in the day’s light.
Cheers and applause rose from the small crowd of male and female admirers who’d stopped to watch their prince in action. Notalus added in his praise along with the others, and as he did, the crowd faced him and bowed with respect before turning back to his son. Theodor was a man who was loved by all, respected and admired by the patrons of their world but greatly feared by their enemies. At almost two thousand years old, Notalus was ready to pass on his kingdom to his heir and live his final years as a contented titan with his beloved consort like his brother, Adres. It was to be their reward after millennia of servitude.
Once the sparring practice was over, his son and the men all clasped forearms and patted each other on the backs for a job well done. Notalus summoned his son to his quarters, watching as he received blessings and kisses from the people nearby as he made his way toward his private balcony. And like the show-off that he was, Theodor stooped into a crouched position and began to swirl his hands around in a full circle and used the wind to lift him the fifteen stories to Notalus’ landing, where he dropped down in front of him with a booming thud.