Page 59 of Deadly Wolf Bite

I look away from him to the others, searching for an ally.

Mia meets my gaze, nodding. She looks back at Grey. “She’s right,” Mia tells him. “Vincenzo will spend the entire time reminding her who’s really in charge. A bunch of alpha bullshit. It’s the perfect distraction.”

“I agree,” Razor pipes up, earning him a heated glare from Grey.

“No one asked you,” Grey grumbles.

“It would split our focus if we leave her at the penthouse,” Crow says, the voice of reason. “You’ll be distracted all night knowing she’s alone. It’ll make you sloppy.”

“I’m never sloppy,” Grey snarls.

Mia rolls her eyes. “We’re just going to give you two a couple of minutes to talk this out.” She pushes to her feet, nodding at the others to do the same.

“Right.” Dutch stands, tapping Razor’s shoulder.

Razor and Crow push back from their chairs.

They all head back inside the apartment, closing the door behind them. When we’re alone, I try to wait out the silence, but Grey’s clearly not going to start the conversation.

“I can do this,” I say.

“Absolutely fucking not.” Grey’s tone is final, but I refuse to give up.

“What happened to being in this equally?” I cross my arms. “You said?—”

“I don’t care what I said. You don’t know how dangerous this world is for someone—” He doesn’t finish it, but the damage is done.

My hands ball into fists. “Someone like me.”

“Lexi.” He sighs but makes no move to correct himself.

I laugh without a single shred of humor. “So, it’s okay for you to risk your life, or for the others to risk theirs, but not for me, the weak little human? I thought you said you weren’t like your father.”

He closes the distance between us, his rage pushing to the surface. “I am nothing like him,” he nearly yells.

The storm in his eyes should probably intimidate me. Instead, it makes me want to wrap my arms around him and comfort him. Because it’s easy to see what has him falling apart: fear.

Before I can do that, his phone rings.

He yanks it out and answers angrily without even looking at the screen. “What?”

Instantly, his expression changes.

“No, I— What? You texted me this morning,” he says, his tone a mixture of confusion and impatience. “You told me to bring her.”

He listens to whoever’s on the other end then says, “I can screenshot the fucking text if you want, but you?—”

He goes silent as he paces along the balcony.

Finally, he says, “I’m not fucking lying.”

His teeth are gritted, his expression pinched tight with fury.

“Fine. I’ll be there,” he says and ends the call.

“Who was that?” I ask.

“My father.”

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