Page 13 of Thrown to the Wolves

It’s a twisted version of my life. Wanting to save lives? That was the old, naive Scarlett.

But Lyssa’s mocking expression softens infinitesimally, and she looks down. “That’s rough about your brother. My condolences.”

“Thank you.” I dab at my lash line.

“They catch the guy who did it?” She’s watching me intently now, sucked into the emotional vortex of my only-slightly-fictional backstory. I can’t resist a slight twist of the knife.

“The police didn’t have any good leads. A random act of senseless violence, they said.” I spit the words out bitterly. “That’s a shitty excuse.”

“Maybe they’re just incompetent,” she suggests, swirling the liquor in her glass. “The cops.”

I shake my head vehemently. “No. No, I’ve seen the darker side of this city in my work at the hospital. How many times do innocent bystanders get caught in the crossfire? There’s evil out there. Real evil.”

“Well, there we agree.” Her sharp gaze pins me like a butterfly to a board. “But you sound pretty bitter about it.”

Tears spill over, hot and accusing, and I wish it was just the act I’m putting on. “Because it’s not fair,” I whisper.

For an endless breath, silence stretches between us. Then Lyssa reaches out and puts her hand on my arm with an unexpectedly gentle touch. “Life isn’t fair. Best to accept that early, sweetheart.”

The endearment sends a shiver through me, even as I bask in my small victory. I’ve wakened something akin to empathy in her, even if I don’t believe she really feels emotions like empathy or sorrow. But this seems close enough.

“You’re probably right,” I concede softly. “But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to just move on, you know?”

Her fingers skim up my arm, and I feel a throbbing pulse start up between my legs, a primal drumbeat of desire.

I need to get it together. I’m playing a role here.

“You know what won’t help?” she says. “Going out to shitty, dangerous bars looking for trouble.”

“Maybe…maybe you could help me out one last time?” I suggest tentatively. “One last dance before I promise to quit coming out to places like this?”

Get someone to do you a favor, and ironically, they feel indebted to you. Because you’ve made them feel useful. Humane.

As if the Wolf could ever be humane.

Lyssa’s pupils dilate at my suggestion, a predatory spark lighting up in her gaze. She downs the remains of her scotch and rises. “Lead the way, Scar.”

My eyebrows go up a little, but I don’t protest the nickname. On the contrary, I think it suits me.

My soul is covered in scars just as much as Lyssa’s body is.

Back in the shoebox apartment, the weight of Lyssa’s presence really settles on me. Every movement, every glance is a reminder of the danger I’ve let in.

But it’s a reminder of last night, too. Of the way she touched me.

The way she kissed me.

My heart thunders against my ribs, so I stall for time by taking out the first aid kit again. “Let me take another look at that arm.”

I expect some pushback, but—wordlessly—Lyssa strips off her shirt, and then her bra. Even half-naked and seated, she exudes that wolfish grace that I think must have prompted the nickname. I do feel like I have a wild predator before me, one that could turn on me at any moment. So, with hands that aren’t quite steady, I unwrap the bandage on her arm to inspect the knife wound.

The gash is ragged, flesh slightly inflamed around re-opened stitches. I frown. “You took off the waterproof bandage.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And did you get into another fight?”

“Nah.” Her lips curve in a taunting smirk.

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