Rebecca has been around werewolves for most of her life, but she’s never met one quite like Jasper, the scar-covered, feral shifter she finds hiding out in her garage. Feeling strangely connected to Jasper, Rebecca accompanies him to the nearby Wild Ridge Pack, only to be dragged into a world of missing alphas, murderous wolves, and dark secrets—including one that will change her life forever!
Age Rating: 18+
Note: This story is the author’s original version and does not have sound.
Jasper’s Soulmate by Lana Cathryn is now available to read on the Galatea app! Read the first two chapters below, or download Galatea for the full experience.
Read the full uncensored books on the Galatea iOS app!
1
Rebecca has been around werewolves for most of her life, but she’s never met one quite like Jasper, the scar-covered, feral shifter she finds hiding out in her garage. Feeling strangely connected to Jasper, Rebecca accompanies him to the nearby Wild Ridge Pack, only to be dragged into a world of missing alphas, murderous wolves, and dark secrets—including one that will change her life forever!
Age Rating: 18+
Original Author: Lana Cathryn
Note: This story is the author’s original version and does not have sound.
For the longest time, I enjoyed the city life. The noise, the people—the nice ones—and the food were appealing. But one cold fall night, my entire view of urban living just changed.
If I’m being honest, I guess other things occurred that contributed to my sudden need to jet out of the city and settle somewhere surrounded by miles of trees, but I only want to remember one.
It was the result of a pity gift, a toe-curling, awe-wrenching secluded cabin in the middle of nowhere.
The cabin—my new home—had come fully furnished and stocked with everything a twenty-year-old like myself would ever desire.
When I say everything, I damn well mean it.
But for the life of me—as I look out at my ridiculously vast property, sipping tea—I can’t figure out why in the fuck there is a naked muddy man running through my backyard.
I know nudists weren’t included on the inventory list of my home.
Tea splutters from my lips as the reality of what I’m seeing sinks in. A naked, muddy man is running through my backyard.
I drop my cup in the sink and hightail it out of the back door and after him.
“Hey!” I shout from across the lawn as soon as I’m out the door. He doesn’t stop for a second or even glance over his shoulder.
Instead, he keeps sprinting and disappears inside my garage seconds later.
“Dude, really,” I groan as I half run, half limp after him.
About the most cardio I have done since leaving the city—two months ago—is walking to and from my kitchen to my bed.
I damn sure am not remotely prepared for chasing nude weirdos across my property at 6 a.m.
My chest is heaving by the time I come to a stop outside of the garage. I take a determined step in until the stark creepiness of the situation dawns on me.
There’s a stranger, a very nude, very male stranger, somewhere in the pitch darkness before me. The fucking light is somewhere in the midst of the junk I don’t use.
I shiver with unease but suck it up and walk forward, body tense as I ready to spring away from anything that jumps out or even moves in the slightest.
I’m not a sissy, but I know my strengths. Cardio, hand-to-hand combat, and pretty much anything aerobic are not part of them. Acting on my flight instinct? That is one of them.
My mind starts up with ridiculous strands of thoughts obviously stimulated by the wariness coursing through me.
The best one: If I spring on a raccoon, will my face be half as fucked as this situation in the end? The answer is no. And I cringe at the imagined outcome.
I maneuver around my cars and other useless junk—squeaking at any noise that I probably make—before finding the drawstring to the light with my face.
I jerk back and then let out a breath of relief when I realize what it is.
Clenching my eyes shut, I send a quick prayer up to every god or goddess ever mentioned and tug on the string.
A click is followed by brightness that stuns my vision for a brief moment. When it focuses again and I take a fearful look around me, I don’t spot the man anywhere.
“Where the fuck are you?” I whisper to myself. I’m so damn thankful no one answers me.
My garage is a tight space. Due to the influx of junk, there are hardly any places to hide, so whoever this guy is, he sure as hell has bested me at hide and seek.
A sniffle comes from behind me.
I spring forward instantly, crashing into a bag of golf clubs that tumble onto the concrete floor loudly. You don’t even fucking golf! I hiss at myself mentally.
Luckily, I’m just limber enough to not follow the items onto the floor. I snatch up a club and turn and jump at the stranger with it held high.
I freeze in place when I see him.
Huddled, hands clutching at his head tightly, he’s sobbing and rocking back and forth. Every emotion I felt before now quickly dissipates, making way for pity.
Especially when—as he’s sobbing—his breath catches and a heart-wrenching gasp for air leaves him.
Being the first time I’ve ever witnessed a grown man crying. I stand there watching in shock before my wits come crashing back.
I set down the golf club, pull out my phone, and have 911 dialed in seconds.
The dial tone rings in my ear a moment before the operator begins talking, not saying what I want to hear.
“We’re sorry but the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”
No longer in service? Since when does 911 go out of service! I curse under my breath and clench my phone in my hand.
Kneeling in front of the man, hoping I don’t scare him—if at all possible—I ask, “Sir, are you okay?”
As soon as the words are out, I mentally curse at myself for being so insensitive.
Of course he is not okay. Anyone with eyes can see that.
There’s no break in between his sobs. Instead, trembling sets in, affecting his entire body.
Though my heart pangs with pain once again, something else steals my concern.
Beneath the layers of mud and filth that cover him, I can just barely make out jagged scars. The gruesome patterns mar every inch of his body.
I draw in a shaky breath and instinctively reach for his hand, meaning to comfort.
“I’m going to call an ambulance but I—” The exact moment that my fingers brush his, he flinches back. Hard.
A sickening crack echoes in the garage, and the man’s body sags forward. He’s clearly unconscious.
“Shit!” I curse, grabbing him before he can fall completely forward. I examine the back of his head for injuries.
I don’t see a gaping wound or find flowing blood when I feel for anything; I do feel the swelling of his head as a knot forms. He’s definitely going to feel that when he comes to.
I was only trying to get him to follow me inside.
God, you really know how to screw yourself, B. I make a face at my unhelpful thoughts and attempt to lift the guy’s body.
I only succeed at bruising my knees when I fall back to the ground roughly, his weight almost completely on me.
“Fuck, dude, you’re beastly,” I groan, managing to use his heftiness to my advantage by pushing him aside, quickly catching his head in my lap.
I sigh and look down at him, at the scars that blemish his face. It’s then that a word replays in my head. Beastly.
My back turns rigid. I didn’t even think— I scrutinize his form a last time and decide that the possibility of my thoughts being true is too likely.
Way too likely to the point that if he happens to wake up with me so close, I could very well face instinctual retaliation.
Careful not to hurt him further or—heaven forbid—wake him now, I set his head back on the cool floor and scoot away, wanting to distance myself as much as possible.
There are few reasons to ever see a naked person—in this case, man—covered in mud and running through the forest.
It’s either because, A, he’s a fucking shifter, or B, he’s batshit crazy.
Is he a shifter though? I ask myself.
His demeanor screams shifter, but the closest pack is nearly a days’ travel away, and that’s according to shifter time.
You’re in the middle of the six reigning packs, B. He could’ve been traveling…
I have no way of confirming that though. There are only two ways to identify a shifter from a human.
The most obvious way is definitely not happening when he’s unconscious or hopefully at all because I don’t feel like being mauled by whatever his animal side is.
By his size, I suspect bear, but there’s a litheness to his form, and all of the bear shifters I’ve met are far more Neanderthal like and bulky in the shoulders, specifically. This guy…
He’s closely as thick with muscle but not quite like them, which leaves wolf as the last possibility. Much more unpredictable and ferocious.
I hug myself as I look over him warily. The second way to identify him as a shifter is by markings… Considering his body is covered in grime and scarring, this won’t be an easy task.
I slink forward cautiously and brush crusted filth off of the area where his shoulder and neck meet.
Aside from his scars, there is no bite mark from a mate. A sudden pang of relief fills me at that, and I pass it off because it lessens the chances of him turning into a feral beast.
My eyes do a final once-over of his form and water at the grisly sight.
“What have you been through?” I whisper, impulsively wiping more muck from his face.
It’s when my fingers brush over his sharp jawline that his body jerks and his eyes snap open.
Stunning gold irises stare back at me, and I’m completely hypnotized by their beauty.
My hands on his jaw remain in motion. The texture beneath my fingers combined with his paranormal eyes have me mindless.
Fingertips move over the softness of his full lips and a scar that splits his top lip down the middle.
Curiosity blooms inside me, strong enough to have me blinking and looking at where my hands are.
I brush dirt away from his mouth, honing in on the long pale scar. It’s only when his lip curls that I realize my mistake.
When I meet his gaze again, I gasp. It’s full of rage, pain, and grief. Anger alone would have been a boon in comparison to the look he’s giving me now.
I jerk my hands away, blurting out, “I’m so sorry!”
Either the abruptness to my voice or movement, or both, startles him. He flinches, cowering on his side and raising his arms to cage his head.
I take a deep, calming breath and try to goad him into following me. “I have to go inside to call an ambulance. I need you to come with me.”
The sooner I get him inside, the sooner I can hopefully get a hold of someone on the landline, someone more qualified to help him.
He begins rocking again.
I bite my lip to stop myself from frowning. He looks so vulnerable. It’s heartbreaking to watch.
I try using my cell a last time, meeting the dial tone as quickly as I dialed the number. I give up hope, rubbing my face in frustration.
I stand up, only to have arms wrap around my lower body and nearly take me off balance. He moved so fast I barely caught a blur.
“P-please,” he stutters, shaking so harshly that I fear he might knock me over. “No one e-else.”
Another sob racks his body, and he clutches me harder. “It’s too much,” he cries.
My hand twitches.
My first instinct is to pry him off of me. The second, more overwhelming, is to hold him as tight as he holds me and soothe him as he weeps.
I don’t know why it even crossed my mind. I’m far from being a softy, but maybe it’s just because he appears so broken.
If my past has told me anything, it’s that men like him are my weakness.
I close my eyes, half hoping when I open them the man at my feet will be gone.
I know it’s selfish of me to think, but I still have healing of my own to be doing. I don’t think I can handle this.
When I open my eyes, he’s still present.
“Okay,” I speak softly. “No one else.”
After a long moment of feeling his trembling and tears as they soak into my pants, I give in to the desire to touch him.
I rest my hand on top of his head, carefully running my hands through his tangled hair; he relaxes subtly.
Gradually, his form begins to shake less and less. The sobs, however, remain.
Read the full uncensored books on the Galatea iOS app!
2
After more cooing than I want to remember, I convince the battered man to enter my home.
He limps the whole twenty feet from the garage, and for just a second, I have the urge to help him, to let him lean on me.
There’s that weakness coming into play again. I can’t give in. I can’t allow myself to get burned again.
I walk past him, not missing his subtle flinch—which makes me feel like the biggest ass on the planet—and lead the way through my back door and into the living room.
“You can sit there,” I say, gesturing to a couch. “I’ll be right back.”
He makes no move, staring warily at the carpet.
I glance down, wondering if something is in his way but see nothing. “Is something wrong?” I ask.
He shudders and shakes his head lightly. Flecks of grime fly off of his wild hair and onto the white carpet. He visibly tenses. It almost appears as if he’s been stunned.
Frowning, I look at the carpet again. If I had actually cared for this house, I might have been distressed by the sight.
However, the circumstances that got me gifted this house are still raw.
If I didn’t genuinely need the peace that living so far out in the forest brings, I probably would have torched this place the day I was handed the keys.
“P-please,” he stutters. “Can’t.”
I sigh. “Look, if it’s the carpet you’re worried about, let’s just say I couldn’t care less if you rolled on every surface of this house. Just sit. I’m going to get a first aid kit for you.”
He inhales harshly, barely placing half of his foot on the carpet before looking at me. I nod toward the couch. He takes a last breath and slowly limps over to it.
The moment I move, he flinches.
I freeze immediately, mouth opening to speak. But I think better of it. I doubt that he wants to talk about whatever he’s been through.
His behavior has red flags popping up all over the place, and I have to admit I’m genuinely worried for him.
With slower movements, I go and retrieve the emergency kit from a closet in the hall.
When I come back, I find the man hunched over and rocking himself with his head in his hands once again. I step over the muddy footprints on the carpet on my way to him.
I kneel down in front of him cautiously, whispering, “This should help you.”
He stays in his position, the subtle back-and-forth movement of his body sending flecks of dirt off of him and onto me.
Silk pajamas, kiss your ass goodbye, I muse inside my head.
Lightly, I touch his leg. I’m not surprised when the moment my hand makes contact, he jolts away, his teary-eyed gaze that’s surrounded with mud focusing on me.
“The kit,” I say softly, holding it out to him.He glances at it briefly and then stares at me.
I shake the item and try to give him my gentlest smile. He reaches out and takes the kit shortly after. My eyes follow his movements.
A mistake.
Now that his body is no longer hunched, I’m reminded of his nudity. The grime on his form only has so much coverage.
That part of him has obviously been spared the mess. I blush and look away from him quickly.
“I’ll uh…get you a towel,” I mutter, rising from my spot.
A deep, frail voice meets my ears. “N-No.”
I look at him, and he averts his eyes.
“Why not?”
His eyes remain glued to the carpet, jaw clenched tight.
I sigh. “Okay, suit yourself.” I go back to my kneeling position, meant for the purpose of making myself look small, unharmful.
It succeeds at doing something else entirely.
“This will never work. I’m sorry, B.”
The familiarity of the masculine voice breaks through the barriers in my head that I’ve had up for so long.
I nearly flinch, and as the memory tied with that single sentence—that utterly shattered my teenage heart—unfolds, my mood takes a damper.
I shake my head in an effort to rid it all, and it works well the moment I take a look at the stranger.
It’s easy, not just because of our odd situation, but because something…different…about him draws me in.
I notice that he has only placed the first aid kit on his lap and made no further move to open it. I wonder if he even knows how…
“I can help you with that,” I offer, gesturing to it.
He looks down at his lap nervously, and I get the idea that he may have put it there for the simple purpose of hiding his cock.
I blush deeply at the memory from just moments ago of what lies beneath the red box.
After looking away and clearing my throat, I hold my hand out. His calloused fingers brush my palm as he hands it over. I almost gasp at the unexpected contact.
I clear my throat again and open up the kit, talking as I take items out to reassure him that I’m harmless and only trying to help.
“I have to wipe away the dirt first. These are disinfectant, so they might sting a little,” I tell him, holding a packet of wipes in my hand.
As gentle as I can possibly be, I rise to a bent over position and begin cleaning his face. Every swipe reveals more beauty…and more mutilation.
I don’t know what I expected lay beneath the layers of dirt on him, and I damn sure am not ready to see the severity of his scarring.
My hand begins to tremble along his flesh. I can’t help the flinch it makes at every grimace or groan he makes when the wipe cleanses an open wound.
And there are a lot.
When his face is clear, I bandage the worst of the cuts then move onto the other more gruesome wounds on his body.
The most severe of all of his afflictions being a burn on his chest.
I don’t even want to think about how that was caused… or how any of his scarring was caused.
My mind assumes torture, but now, my heart says abuse.
It’s the way he flinches at every abrupt movement, the way he watches me intently and never for even a second looks away as my hands move over his body that has me feeling that way.
And even if he didn’t want to be scared or on guard, I don’t think he would be able to help the flinching.
There’s no way a man like this breaks so easily, not unless he’s been suffering for a long time.
“I can get you some painkillers for the time being…”
I trail off, looking out of the living room window in thought. I have to call someone at some point. This man is so battered and damaged.
And though I hate to think it, he may look like an invalid now, but there is the possibility of him being something dangerous.
In any case, my single year of medical school and a first aid kit isn’t enough to fix him, especially when not all of his wounds are skin deep.
I decide to let him be for now, hoping some time will do him better than worse.
A day should give me plenty of time to figure out the reception issue, and if not, I’ll take him to them myself. Even if the drive is almost half a day.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
Despite the thickness of muscle to his form, he looks so frail and tired. His sunken features have me thinking that he hasn’t eaten anything decent in weeks.
At the mention of food, his stare on the carpet snaps to me. I gasp as I’m exposed to his feral beauty.
It’s the first time I’m witnessing his direct gaze free of filth and blood.
He has the kind of beauty that could put angels to shame, the only difference being that his beauty possesses a wild edge. And it appeals to some dark part deep inside me.
He doesn’t say a single word, but the hope and pleading in his eyes tell me enough.
Moving as quickly as I can in his presence, I walk into the kitchen, grab the leftovers I had from dinner last night, and heat them up.
It’s a combination I’d experimented with that had actually turned out well: steak and stew.
“I made this last night,” I say, handing the warm bowl to him. “I thought it was delicious. I hope you—”
Once the food is in front of him, he nearly inhales it. He chokes briefly, and that’s the only pause until he’s eaten every last bite of the meal.
I know it’s good, but his behavior makes it seem as if this is the first food he’s eaten in months rather than weeks like I assumed.
It makes the pit of worry in my stomach grow.
As he sets the bowl aside, I sit down on a sofa across from him.
He seems calmer but obviously still shaken by whatever he’s faced before finding my home.
“What—” My voice catches. “What happened to you?”
Unsurprisingly the man doesn’t answer me. Instead, he moves toward the fireplace in the front of the living room and huddles in on himself.
I rub my face in frustration.
If he won’t talk to me, then that’s fine. I just hope getting him to the police station won’t be as difficult as it’s starting to seem it will be.
And hopefully, they’ve fixed their damn connection by morning.
A silent groan leaves my lips. The thought of them not answering, leaving me to figure all of this out alone, is enough to bring on a migraine.
I sit and rest my back against the couch and doze off seconds later.
As I rest my eyes, my mind continues to filter in my worries through my dreams. I’m running. Something is chasing me. Grief. I fall. It leaps at me. Fear.
When I come to, my head is aching fiercely and my back seems to have joined the club.
“Fucking hell,” I groan, stretching my muscles and looking at the flickering flames inside the fireplace.
I fully expect to see a body in front of them.
There isn’t one.
My eyes snap to the couch the man was on before. It’s empty.
“Shit.”
I run through the house in search of him, my mind flooding with worry so strong it’s almost overwhelming.
Suddenly, I stop in the hallway leading to my bedroom.
Clashing with the white carpet are muddy footprints leading into my room, and now that I’m not panting and am focused, I can hear the sound of the shower running in my bathroom.
Relief crashes into me. So does curiosity.
I follow the trail and stop at my bathroom door. I know I probably shouldn’t do it, but I enter the bathroom anyway.
Despite my better judgment, it’s like something is pulling me, willing me to invade this stranger’s privacy.
Steam is rolling out of the shower in waves so thick that I can’t even see two feet in front of me.
When I manage to trip over my own damn feet and fall face-first into the marble floor, I’m not the least bit shocked.
I curse mentally and pick myself up off of the slick surface.
Clearly karma doesn’t want me to be a Peeping Tom today, so I turn around, ready to walk out. Until I hear the muffled chanting coming from the man in my shower.
His words send tingles down my spine and through my core.
Read the full uncensored books on the Galatea iOS app!
