Total pages in book: 205
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
Shutting the basement door, I hurry into the library and close myself in. Then I make a beeline to a book that caught my attention a few days ago and pluck it off the shelf.
I read Off Season by Jack Ketchum during my horror phase, unable to forget the gruesome tale about a cannibal family living in a rural cabin.
Flipping to the back, I grab a pen from the desk and scribble my notes in the margins and white spaces.
I include names, ages, descriptions, known scars, and anything else I know about my captors. It’s not much, but I’ll add to it and try to collect some hair samples. DNA would help, right? Or have I watched too many crime documentaries?
That night, I wake in a cold sweat, fresh from a nightmare about feral boys lost to madness, haunting the hills outside my window.
As I rub the terrifying images from my eyes, I swear I see a shadow slipping out of the room.
Was someone in here with me? While I slept?
I wish I could lock the door, but the two upstairs bedrooms don’t have locks. I already checked.
It’s fucking weird.
I’m grateful Kodiak still sleeps on the couch downstairs. But sometimes I hear footsteps in the house at night and wonder if it’s him, pacing with irritation because I’m in his room.
As if I want to be here.
I turn to the window and stare out at the nothingness. Where do the wolves live? Are there caves in the hills? Places to hide? What else is out there?
As much as I don’t want to wander outside, I need to investigate.
During daylight.
It takes several hours to fall back asleep. When I wake early the next morning, I shower—the bathroom door locks, thank God—and dress in insulated running tights, a hoodie, and sneakers. With any luck, I’ll be sweating too much to need a coat.
Are they going to stop me when I go outside? Didn’t Leonid encourage me to walk out the door and head for the hills?
Guess I’ll find out.
Needing to hydrate first, I head to the kitchen for water and a knife to arm myself. After seeing something move behind the sauna, I shouldn’t go out there without a weapon.
As I round the corner, I stop dead.
Denver sits at the island, drinking coffee.
My heart rate triples, incited by the fear I always feel in his presence. I need to quit reacting to him. At some point, I’ll get used to him.
But that day isn’t today.
The allure carving his handsome face, the unspoken intent curving his lips, and the fires of hell dancing in his eyes—his gaze confronts mine, paralyzing me.
“Where are you going?” He blows the steam off his raised mug and takes a sip.
“Running.” I glance at my sneakers.
“Finally taking my advice.” Leonid shuffles in behind me, his voice drowsy with sleep. “Head toward the northern hillside.”
“Where the wolves live?” I twist toward him and freeze.
He sleeps without a shirt. And very little else, unfortunately.
A pair of gray pajama pants sits so low beneath his abs that my eyes go straight to the pubic hair peeking above the waistband. Dark hair, neatly trimmed, bracketed by inguinal creases that cut in from his hips. Chiseled creases that only men have. Really, no man should have love lines like that, especially not this one.
The too-thin cotton of his pants reveals the long, thick shape of him. Not erect. But large, nonetheless.
A shower not a grower.
I cringe at Wolf’s voice in my head and snap my eyes up.
A nefarious smirk overtakes Leonid’s face, reminding me who I just ogled.
Not who but what.
A monster inhabiting the body of a Norse god.
“Wolves.” He scratches the scar that mars the Adonis belt of muscle around his midsection. “Bears. Wolverines. Ghosts. Plenty of things out there to hunt you.”
“Leo.” Denver sighs. “Stop antagonizing her and show her the armory.”
Ghosts? I store that away for later and focus on Denver’s response.
The armory.
Will they actually arm me? Knowing I could use a weapon against them?
“Show her yourself.” The gorgeous blue-eyed, gold-eyed heathen brushes past me, forcing me to sidestep him to avoid a collision with his bulging bicep.
“Dick,” I mutter.
“Saw you staring at it.” He grabs a mug, keeping his back to me as he pours his coffee. “If you’re nice, I’ll let you take it for a ride.”
“That’s a bit contradictory to your earlier behavior.” I flex my hands, fighting the urge to rip out his savage braids. “Are you suffering from a dissociative identity disorder? It’s okay if you are. You can get help for that.”
His expression turns nuclear.
Oh, he doesn’t like to be called out on his shit? Good.
Denver remains silent, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
Fucking insane. The whole lot of them.
I need a weapon.
“Where’s the armory?” With reluctance, I approach Leonid’s back, reach for a glass, and fill it with water from the tap.