Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63055 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63055 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
He kicks off the ruined jeans and shoves his legs into the new pair. His phone, socks and sneakers are on the pavement where they fell off. He grabs them and barely has his feet shoved in his shoes when we hear sirens.
“Son of a bitch.” He shoves the helmet my way, then kickstarts the motorcycle and roars around the concrete building, driving through overgrown weeds and brush until we bump over curbs and emerge on a back street.
I cling to his torn t-shirt, which is barely hanging on. I bunch a handful of it together to staunch the wound on his side.
But clearly, it’s not bothering him.
Because he’s not a fucking human!
My mind whips back to every interaction we’ve had. Any clues I should’ve caught about this, this… guy? Wolf? Whatever the hell he is.
Well, duh. He’s from Wolf Ridge.
Holy shit—are all the people there werewolves? Was Winslow? That’s why Bo didn’t think he was dead after getting shot by the cops?
And the fight at school. That’s why he was just laughing when he got beat up. And how he never sported a bruise or any sign of it after he brushed his teeth of the blood.
It’s why Wolf Ridge wins all the sporting events.
Why his eyes seemed to change color. They were changing—to the color of his wolf’s eyes!
I should be more freaked out than I am. My mind is still reeling, but my body? My body’s one hundred percent on board. Bo is a wolf. A bonafide, howls at the moon, shapeshifting wolf.
My nipples peak and thighs tighten around his hips. No wonder he’s literally an animal in bed.
No wonder his body is a work of art. His muscles unbelievably big. His movements so agile.
And right now, he’s all business.
He doesn’t stop to talk or make a plan, he just zips through the back streets of Naco until he gets on the state highway, then I-10.
I don’t complain.
My belly aches from getting punched, and my side is one giant road rash from Bo pushing me out of the way of the bullet.
None of that matters, though.
What matters is that I don’t have any money to give the don’s men tomorrow. Which means my life is over.
For a moment, I consider involving Bo. Could he fight them off for me? Kill them?
But no, the don is too powerful for one high school kid to take on—even if he is superhuman. These guys were just associates of his. If they disappear, he’ll send more. Serious ones, from Detroit. Not these Arizona idiots he hired.
And they won’t stop coming. Not until the done gets his pound of flesh.
Besides, I don’t know if it’s true that bullets can’t hurt Bo. Maybe he’s dying right now and just has a really high pain threshold. I lift the shirt away from the wound I was staunching, but I don’t feel blood gushing beneath it.
I bring my fingertip to the wound, touching as lightly as possible. He doesn’t wince. I probe it a little more. Feel the bullet lodged near the surface.
I work it out with my fingertips, half-shocked, half-satisfied when it pops out into my palm.
“Thanks,” Bo shouts over the wind.
It’s the first thing he’s said since we left.
Remembering where the second wound is beneath his jeans, I work my fingers down past his waistband until I find it and work the second bullet out.
Okay, yeah. Definitely superhuman strength and healing abilities.
“Sloane—are you okay?” he shouts.
“I’m okay.” I mean, I’m in pain, but big picture, fine. No bullet wounds. No broken bones.
There’s so much more I want to say, but it’s impossible with the wind and the speed. And besides, I still sense anger and tension radiating from him.
I don’t know if it’s just leftover aggression or if he’s mad at me. Either way, I’m not going to poke the bear. I mean, wolf.
Fall is still warm in Arizona, but I get cold on the ride with the sun down and the wind whipping at us. I’m beyond grateful when Bo takes one of the Tucson exits—I don’t think I could stand another two plus hours back home.
Chapter 11
Sloane
Bo drives downtown and parks beside a row of motorcycles in a lot behind what looks like a nightclub. The city is hopping. Young people pack the back patio and music thumps from inside.
We both dismount from the bike, and I pull off the helmet.
Bo crowds into me, his eyes still glinting silver, his form still tense and angry. He wraps a fist in my hair in the back and brings his face right up to mine. “You’ll take it to the grave with you,” he growls.
I suddenly understand his tension. I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.
“What you saw back there. You won’t speak a word of it to anyone. Ever. Understand?”
Menacing Bo is frightening, but it turns me on. Knowing the cocky roguish flirt—the guy with all that easy-going charm—turns into a two hundred pound deadly weapon when threatened and ignites some primitive part of my brain. Male as protector. Or provider. Or general bad-ass you want on your side.