A Shift In Perspective

visit my website join my reader's club A free story for you from Sierra Dafoe! A Shift in Perspective © 2008 All rights reserved. Please do not copy, forward, or redistribute! Oh God, Sharon thought as the door swung shut behind her, this is bad. This is really, really bad. The clang of metal on metal drove a spike of pure dread through her belly. That sound, so disconcertingly final, brought the reality of it home to her in a way not even the handcuffs and the flashing blue lights had managed to do. She was arrested. Arrested and in jail and the only person she knew to call was the same person who'd put her here. "Oh God," she moaned aloud, watching the officer walk back toward the doorway giving onto the station proper. Leaning against the bars, she dropped her face into her hands. "God, this is bad." A disparaging snort came from behind her, and Sharon whirled. There, sitting on the far bench of the holding cell, was a man. A big man, from the look of him -

although oddly enough, she couldn't make him out that clearly. There seemed to be a dimness around him, as if he traveled wrapped inside his own personal darkness, as if the harsh fluorescent lighting filling the rest of the cell couldn't quite touch him. She could see the outline of burly shoulders, stooped now as he sat, his elbows propped on his knees and his hands - large hands, Sharon noted - dangling before him, the nails broad and short. Dark shaggy hair obscured the line of his neck, falling down to brush the ragged flannel shirt hanging loosely over his torso, and his face was in shadow. But from within that shadow his eyes burned up at her, hard, weary, full of contempt. He gave another snort, and Sharon sensed more than saw one corner of his mouth turn upward in a sneer. "Officer!" Whirling, Sharon grabbed the bars and leaned her face against them. By craning her neck, she could just see the open doorway and the station beyond. "Officer!" The sergeant on duty - a balding, paunchy man whose belly strained against the brown shirt of his uniform like an overeager dog - poked his head back through the doorway. "You just give a shout if that 'un gives you any trouble, Ma'am. I'll be right out here all night." Oh, great. Now that was comforting. "Officer, you can't leave me in here with him!" From fifteen feet away, he fiddled with the keys at his belt, shrugging with a hint of embarrassment. "Only one holding cell, Ma'am. There's not exactly a lot of crime in these parts." He gave her a nod that Sharon fancied was meant to be reassuring, repeating, "You give a shout if you need to." And with a meaningful stare at her cellmate, he disappeared back into the station, leaving the adjoining door propped wide. A moment later, Sharon heard the tortured squeak of a chair as he resumed his position behind the desk, and the lazy rustle of a newspaper. Yeah. Real reassuring. Warily, Sharon sank down onto the bench by the bars, watching her fellow jailbird from the corner of her eye. His gaze met hers, hot and feral, and a laugh rumbled deep in his chest at her discomfort. She averted her eyes rapidly, but couldn't help swallowing as she remembered his hands. His large, powerful hands... "Oh God," she whispered again. "God, get me out of here." It was her own fault, and she knew it. What in God's name had possessed her? She

stared down at her bloody knuckles, remembering the satisfying crack as the glass had shattered, and the sight of Dwayne, his face bloodless with shock, staring out at her through the jagged gap her fists had made, his mouth gaping like a dead fish's. Serves him right, she thought spitefully. Serves him right for screwing that bimbo right in plain sight. Okay, so it hadn't exactly been in plain sight. So maybe she'd had to scale the side fence and creep through the back yard before she could see into the uncurtained window of his apartment. But still... And it might have served him right, but she was the one sitting in jail, dammit. In jail in Machias, Maine, a town barely large enough to boast a police station let alone small amenities like his and hers holding cells, apparently. A town in which she knew not one single soul except for Dwayne. And seeing as he was the one who'd called the cops on her, it was highly unlikely he'd be willing to come bail her out. Damn it, why did she always have to be so impulsive? Impetuous, her mother had called her, with dire predictions about her wayward daughter's future - predictions which, Sharon reflected with a wince, were apparently coming true. Impetuous. Uncontrollable. Headstrong and wild. What in hell was she going to do now? A rumble of laughter again, and Sharon jerked her head upright. For a moment she'd actually forgotten about the man on the far side of the cell. Not so far, either. Maybe ten feet of space separated them. He was watching her, a huge, wolfish grin spreading his heavy features beneath the black stubble of his beard. "Think this is bad?" His voice was like thunder in the distance - deep, powerful, full of barelycontained menace. "This is nothing." "It's the worst night of my fucking life, thank you very much." Her nervousness made her tone even sharper, and she braced herself, half expecting him to plunge across the cell at her. Instead, a spasm rippled across his face, and the fire in his eyes turned inward. With a grimace, he growled, "You should count your blessings, then." Turning his head away, he stared blankly at the corridor wall, his eyes dark and suddenly haunted. Outside the metal box of the cell, at the far end of the corridor, a small wirereinforced window looked out onto the black night. Even through the harsh illumination of the fluorescents, she could make out a ghost of white, an additional brightness that crept high along the wall. Moonlight, she realized, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the silver disk of the moon slipping into the sky, just a sliver of it showing at the lower edge of the window casement.

It was the moonlight he was watching, hunkered back in his corner of the cell, his face shadowed with an expression she couldn't quite read. "You... Are you okay?" she asked timidly, not at all sure why she did so. It was just that there was something in his eyes, something almost hunted... He jerked slightly as if he, too, had forgotten her presence for a moment, and shrugged. "Not really. It doesn't matter. Was he worth it?" "What?" The man nodded at her hands, and Sharon looked down at them again - the swollen knuckles, the rusty stains of dried blood. "Was he worth it?" he asked again. "What makes you think it was a man?" He grinned again, a mocking, toothy grin, and Sharon flushed. It was kind of silly to deny it, after all. "No. No, he wasn't." "I didn't think so." The feral light was back in his eyes, burning into hers with an intensity that was almost hypnotic. Serial killers were like that, too, she'd read they often had a strange, undeniable charisma to them... He was coming toward her, she realized. Almost without her noticing it he'd uncurled himself from his bench and risen to his feet, towering against the flat, featureless ceiling, looming over her... She cowered back against the bars and he stopped abruptly, staring down at her for one minute more, muttering deep in his throat, "I didn't think so." His shoulders slumped, and some essential tension seemed to run out of his body, leaving him hunched with an air of defeat. His gaze flicked once to the moonlight on the wall. Then he turned away, standing with his back to her, his shaggy black hair tumbling luxuriantly down over his shoulders and his forehead pressed against the wall. Sharon's heart hammered in her chest, but the shout died from her throat as she watched him. He looked so beaten, standing there. So utterly forlorn. He presented his unprotected back to the world as if he was beyond hope. God, what had he done? What was going to happen to him? And how could that damn butterball of a police officer have thrown her in her with a truly dangerous criminal? He was dangerous, she had no doubt about it - she'd seen the muscles flexing as he'd stood over her, like iron bands beneath his clothes. Maybe not right now, maybe not this second, but he was certainly more than capable of ripping a man to pieces. Staring at the massive line of his shoulders, Sharon wouldn't have been surprised if he'd torn the door of their cell from its hinges.

So why, then, did her heart clench, watching him? Why did he make her think of an animal at a zoo, slumped in despair inside its cage? He was probably a killer, for God's sake! With those huge, forceful hands, hands with nails as long and sharp as claws... "Is there anything I can do?" Sharon found herself whispering impulsively. Inwardly, she winced - her mother must be rolling in her grave; helping a criminal! Impetuous. Foolish. Going to come to a bad end one day, mark my words... But the soul-deep yearning in his eyes as he glanced over her shoulder pierced her to the core, blotting out that nagging voice like a swatted mosquito. Sharon swallowed, her stomach clenching in a way that was curiously painless, was even almost pleasant... Then the glow in his eyes flickered out, replaced by a cold, hard scorn. "Nice offer, but I don't think so." His words felt like a slap, and Sharon's flush deepened. "You're really not up for it, little girl." Little... Of all the... Fury burned through her brain, short-circuiting those areas where all the qualities her mother used to extol should have been housed sensibility, circumspection, self-preservation... "I just punched a man's window out because he cheated on me," she shot back. "Oh, and that makes you a tough guy?" His grin was back, broad and amused. She bristled. "I think it makes me able to decide for myself what I'm 'up for'." She slurred the words in mockery, and his grin widened. "You think so?" He leaned against the wall watching her, arms folded over that powerful chest. She could see the muscles straining against his flannel shirt, stretching the fabric. He jerked his chin at the moonlight creeping down the corridor toward them. "You see that?" She turned her head, and nodded. "Well that, as they say, is the end of the road." "I don't understand." White teeth flashed within the black tangle of his beard. "Of course you don't, sweetie. But in, oh..." he eyed the patch of moonlight with a practiced eye, "another seven minutes you're going to have a ringside seat at understanding, I promise." Sharon stared at him, confused. His words made no sense. And his beard...had his beard been that long before? She'd thought it was just stubble... He nodded slowly, watching her face. Somewhere his grin had vanished like a magician's rabbit. "And when that happens, they're going to come in here and pump me so full of lead you could use me as an anchor for an aircraft carrier. So don't talk to me about how bad your night is, sweetheart - " His eyes flashed with fire,

burning with contempt. Then just as suddenly they dimmed again, and he looked away, his shoulders slumping. Shuffling heavily to the farther bench, he sank down upon it, then stretched out full length on its narrow surface and closed his eyes, one arm flung over his eyes, the other dangling wearily, his hand brushing the floor. Sharon stared at it, at the thick patch of silky hair coating its back, the long, cruel nails starting now to curve back on themselves, no longer nails but claws... "Oh, Jesus," she breathed, clamping her hands over her mouth. The scream welling up inside her hit her clamped hands and flew back inward, making her tremble and shake. Because what if she did scream? What would happen then? Would the officer come fast enough? Oh, her cellmate might look relaxed, but she could see the tension running like live current just beneath that resigned facade - she could practically feel his body quivering from here. Could one fat, aging man save her from a w...a w... Oh, holy God. In some distant corner of her brain, she thought how pleased her mother would be to know she'd been right, and laughed mirthlessly. Yep. Torn to pieces by a werewolf definitely qualified as a bad end. "You know why he cheated on you, don't you?" The question, so totally unexpected, made Sharon look over from where she hunched, sitting on the bench with her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped tight around her knees. The werewolf hadn't moved - one arm was still draped over his eyes, his visibly lengthening mane of hair spilling down around his face. Sharon watched in fascination as his claws extended further, smoothly as flower petals unfolding. "It's because he couldn't hold you, and he knew it." Sharon puzzled over this a bit, then simply sat, waiting. Beneath his arm, a grin curved the werewolf's mouth. "See? That, right there. That's why he couldn't hold you. You're strong, Sharon. Strong enough to keep from panicking, even now. Strong enough to smash out a window when somebody wrongs you, rather than rolling over and just taking it." She couldn't evaluate what he was telling her, couldn't weigh whether she agreed with his assessment or not. She could only wonder dimly how the werewolf had known her name. As if reading her thought, he answered, "They said it when they brought you in. Wolves have good hearing, you know." I do now, she thought as the werewolf rolled onto one side, propping his head on

one hand as he grinned over at her. "He wasn't worthy of you, Sharon. He was weak, and he knew it. So he fucked some other woman to try and make himself feel more like a man. Seriously, how long would you have stayed with him, even if he hadn't cheated?" She nodded dumbly. It made sense. And he was right - she'd already been getting more than a little bored of Dwayne. Of his spinelessness, his cowardice, his anemic lovemaking... "Do all werewolves know so much about human nature?" she demanded suddenly. The werewolf laughed. "Is it really all so different from animal nature?" Then his eyes flicked past her to the corridor outsider, and he fell suddenly silent. Sharon looked around, and swallowed. The moonlight had crept, inch by stealthy inch, to the edge of the cell. Already it was silvering the bottom of the bars behind where she sat. In a few more minutes, it would flood their tiny cage, and then... "You're going to kill me, aren't you?" The werewolf stared at her, affronted, and for a moment Sharon was struck by how remarkably human he looked. Huge, wild, dangerous, yes...but somewhere, Sharon guessed suddenly, was a mother who had sang him to sleep once, a hidden place in the Maine woods where he'd played at the games all young boys played, pretending to be pirates and cowboys and astronauts... He rolled onto his back again, his arm coming up to cover his eyes, blocking out the brightness of the moon. "No," he said heavily, his voice like lead in his massive chest. "But that's why they'll kill me." "Because they think you'll hurt them." No answer. "And you can't... You can't stop it?" The knowledge that her own demise wasn't imminent should have relieved her - but all Sharon felt was a tense, pointed sorrow. Not the bite of it, not yet. She could feel it poised, though, ready like a hawk to stoop and seize her in sharp, burning talons. "Can't anyone come to get you out?" "No." His voice was no more than a cracked whisper. "The moon," he added shortly, as if that explained everything. And it did. He was beautiful, she realized as moonlight pooled on the floor at her feet, reflecting off the concrete to where he lay...but not touching him. Not yet. Its ethereal glow illuminated him in a way the fluorescents failed to, showing him the

proud line of his nose, the jut of his chin beneath the thick beard, the powerful cords of his neck flowing gracefully down to shoulders like a bull's... Swallowing against the ache in her throat, she asked again, desperately, "Oh, isn't there anything I can do?" He turned his head toward her. Moonlight blazed silver in his dark eyes, and for just a moment Sharon recoiled from that unearthly sight. A spasm ran along his jaw at her response, and he closed his eyes. He looked so hopeless, so resigned, Sharon couldn't stand it. "Tell me, damn it! If there's anything I can do, anything at all..." His eyes opened again, and this time she could see the haunted shadows in their depths, his fear reined in tight as a racehorse champing at the bit. "Make love to me," he whispered, holding her gaze. "Make love to me, Sharon." Another time, another place, Sharon would have laughed outrageously at the suggestion - all that set-up, just to get laid! But now she found herself standing, her gaze locked to his. Moonlight bathed the bench behind her as she rose, like a negative shadow left behind and forgotten. She tugged her t-shirt out of her jeans and pulled it rapidly over her head, and the werewolf's pupils widened, his nostrils flaring slightly as she unbuttoned her jeans and shucked them off, kicking her sneakers off at the same time so she stood there in nothing but her underwear, her lace bra cupping the milky softness of her breasts. "Oh, Sharon," he breathed, his eyes drinking her in as she came across the cell and stood over him. His flannel shirt strained across the massive arc of his chest, and even as she watched a button ripped free, giving her a glimpse of dense black curls and ivory white skin. Impatiently, she reached down and tore his shirt open, revealing the broad planes of his pecs, the solid arch of his ribcage. Silky black hair trailed like a stripe down his abs, following the dip and swell of muscle down to where his erection strained against the tight fabric of his jeans. Straddling him, she fumbled at the button until it sprang open, and tugged hungrily at his zipper until his cock sprang free, thick and hard and glistening with a first pearly drop of liquid. She shouldn't have been surprised, Sharon thought faintly, gazing down at the rockhard shaft that strained up toward her, between her thighs. No, she shouldn't have been surprised at all. His growl did surprise her, though, and the effortless way his hands clamped around her hips, heaving her into the air as she worked his jeans down to reveal the round, heavy swell of his sac. A deep, hungry rumble vibrated through his chest, and he lowered her down, sliding one hand between her thighs to yank the flimsy fabric of her panties aside. Carefully, conscious of the claws that tipped his strong fingers, he traced the line of her opening, spreading the tender folds. His finger came away slick with her wetness, and Sharon realized in shock that she was quivering, nearly on the brink of climax already. Placing the pad of his thumb

firmly on her throbbing nub, he rubbed it in a circular motion, smiling slightly at her indrawn gasp. Then he glanced up at her, amusement and warning mingled in his eyes. "Quiet," he murmured, jerking his head ever so slightly. The guard, Sharon remembered, and bit her lip against the moans welling in her throat as his thumb circled her clit again and again. Reaching out blindly, she wrapped her left hand around an iron bar, clinging to it for support. It seemed the only solid thing in a universe that was suddenly swirling, melting, the cell itself becoming fluid and insubstantial as the warmth inside her flared into heat, then agony, then a sharp, aching bliss that made her clamp her jaw to contain her cries. Silent, shuddering, she bucked above him, feeling ecstasy explode deep in her womb. Trembling, she held tight, one hand around the bar and the other grasping his heavy shoulder as he held her hips, guiding her down firmly on the huge, hard shaft jutting up to meet her. The werewolf looked up at her with silver fire in his eyes. "If I come," he murmured, his breathing deep and fiercely controlled, "if I come when the moonlight touches me, it'll redirect the energy..." Then the slick head of his cock slid into her passage, and he fell silent, his face both lax and taut with hunger. Staring deep into his eyes, Sharon breathed rapidly, holding herself still as his cock slowly spread her open, filling her until just the feel of him inside her was enough to steal her breath, and then plunging even deeper as he thrust his hips up, burying himself inside her to the hilt as he dragged her down against him, holding her against the warm breadth of his chest. They clung together like that, barely moving, his hands cupping her ass as he held her to him, every fiber of his being straining up to the place where they joined together. His abs, taut as iron, rubbed against her mons, and Sharon couldn't help it - she lifted her head and whimpered softly. His eyes went dark at the sound, filled with a raw, animal lust, and slowly he began pumping inside her, his cock gliding slick and stone-hard inside her passage. She was going to faint, Sharon thought, sliding bonelessly up and down the length of his shaft. She was going to dissolve into tiny particles of bliss and just melt away... He could rock her like this for hours, if he wanted. For a lifetime, even. She could die making love to him and not feel a moment's regret. "Oh, Sharon," he whispered, his hands tightening on her, kneading her soft flesh. "Oh God, Sharon." The naked need in his voice made her smile, deep inside herself, a purely feminine enjoyment in her power over him unfolding in her womb, making her hot again, making her hungry. Straightening, she lifted herself above him, her breasts tender and swollen against the soft lace of her bra. The lust in his eyes deepened as his gaze traced her curves, one hand coming up to caress their full, round weight. Delicately, he trailed a claw across the very point of her bra, tugging lightly at the lace. She quivered at the sensation, tiny shocks of delight exploding inside her. His eyes were like moonlight, full of soft milky fire... "Oh, no," she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulder in alarm as she saw the

moonlight stealing like a thief up the leg of the bench, silvering the long, hanging tips of his raven hair. Convulsively, she bucked above him, driving him deep inside her, deep and hard. He hissed, his jaw clenching as his cock flexed inside her, his hand falling again to her hip, trying to slow her, to make it last... Sharon wouldn't let him. Furiously, desperately, she raised herself above him, thrusting herself down around the hot, delectable hardness of his erection, holding him tight inside her. She wouldn't let him go. She wouldn't! "Oh please," she whispered fiercely. "Please, please, please..." Staring up at her, the werewolf panted, the cords in his neck standing out as he fought back his own groans. Smoothly, noiselessly, he pistoned up into her, harder and harder as the need overtook him, thrusting into her with an urgency no man had ever come close to showing her before. His abs tightened; his back arched; his head snapped back and moonlight glimmered on his lengthening fangs as he screamed in silent ecstasy, his balls throbbing against her as he poured his seed into her, gout after gout of it, hot and slick and sweet... Clinging to him, held aloft as he slammed his hips upward, Sharon clung to him, quivering as her own orgasm rocked her, peak after peak exploding along her nerves until they sang with golden fire, so sensitive even the gentle glide of his cock against her clit as he withdrew sent her again into a tremble of delight. With a heavy sigh, he collapsed against the bench, his cheek curving against her forehead in a smile as she slumped against him, utterly spent. Finally, she lifted her head slightly, just enough to see the alabaster line of his cheekbone, and the smooth, chiseled plane of his jaw. Wonderingly, she traced it, feeling taut, silky skin above solid bone. Still large, still powerful, he held her tenderly against the muscular pillow of his chest and wearily she dropped her head back to his shoulder, trailing her fingers through the soft black curls furring his pecs. "I don't... Do you have a name? I don't even know what to call you." "Call me anything you like," he murmured, a tendril of humor running through his deep voice, "and I promise you, Sharon, I will always come when you call." She snuggled close against him, reveling in the strength in his arms around her strength enough to hold her forever, if he wanted. The thought that he might not want to was like ice water in her belly - but she pushed the thought away, unwilling to let anything spoil this moment. The worst night of her life? So she'd thought, but she'd been wrong. Again. For once, it didn't bother her. Then he spoke again, a curious tension in his voice that immediately set her on edge, bracing herself against what was to come. "They'll be coming for me in the morning, Sharon." His tone was serious, almost hesitant. She didn't want to see the distance in his eyes, so she merely nodded, her

forehead pressed against the warmth of his neck like a child. "They... I... I want to thank you. I really thought..." He fell silent a moment, and Sharon scrambled for some defense, some sarcasm or anger she could hide her disappointment behind. Empty-handed, she waited for the words that would shatter her heart. "Sharon, will you come with me?" And then her heart did shatter, joy piercing it as sharply as any grief, a freedom and a wildness she'd never known she possessed breaking free of flesh and bone to go rioting among the stars. "Yes," she whispered, wrapping her arms tight around the strong column of his neck. "Oh, yes." Smiling, she raised her head to gaze down into his moonstruck eyes, eyes full of wildness and wonder and white. "Please," she whispered again. And smiling, her werewolf eased her onto her back and covered her body with his own, and came for her again as the moon shone down and the world, all oblivious, went on outside. ***** Thank you again for joining my newsletter! You can find more free stories and first chapters from my books at my Yahoo group, the Sierra club (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/The_Sierra_Club/). Come visit me soon at sierradafoe.com!