Page 17 of What a Wolf Demands

Fingertips brushed her arm.

A strangled scream caught in her throat. She leaned forward, almost flailing as she dodged another rolling cart.

There was a crash behind her, then male swearing.

Pulse racing, she put on a final burst of speed. She reached the door, flew over the threshold, and took a sharp left into the alley. Green dumpsters and plain, brown service doors flew past as she sprinted to the dance club. One, two, three . . . She counted the doors. The club was the fifth on the right.

Heavy footfalls echoed behind her.

Four. She rounded an overflowing dumpster. “Five!” she said on a half sob. She wrenched open the club’s door, ducked inside, and stumbled into a darkened hallway. The door banged shut at her back. Loud music enveloped her, the bass deep enough to rattle her bones. She paused, chest heaving, to get her bearings. The hallway was deserted, its walls covered with swirls of neon paint that glowed like the deep sea creatures she’d once seen at an aquarium with her parents. Just ahead, lights flashed, and shadows moved across a narrow opening.

She gulped a breath and hurried toward it.

Behind her, the door squealed open.

She whirled, her heart in her throat.

Prado burst inside, his frame filling the hallway. He stopped for a second, his wolf-blue gaze finding her. Then he started forward, the look on his face promising unholy retribution.

She didn’t think. Just turned and ran for the light and the safety of humans. The music swelled. She reached the end of the hallway and stumbled onto a dance floor. People swirled around her, bobbing past like leaves caught on a current. The sharp astringent scents of sweat and alcohol filled her lungs. The bass throbbed, its deep, insistent beat vibrating up from the floor.

Someone bumped against her back, thrusting her forward.

She gasped and whirled, ready to do battle.

“Sorry!” A man, his eyes glazed with alcohol, lifted his hands in apology. He paused a second, then ran his gaze down her body and smiled. “Hey, wanna dance?”

“No.” She searched the crowd, but there was no sign of Prado. Frustration and anxiety beat at her. Everywhere she looked, humans bounced and spun, most holding drinks, some laughing as they let the crowd maneuver them around the dance floor.

“You sure?”

Distracted, she turned back to the human. “What?”

He raised his voice, the tendons in his neck straining. “Are you sure you don’t want to dance?”

She opened her mouth to decline. Over his shoulder, the crowd parted. Prado appeared. His eyes locked on her, and he moved quickly across the dance floor.

Jesus. He was like the Terminator.

The human in front of her frowned. “Listen, yes or no?” Prado loomed behind him.

“No!” She hit the guy on both shoulders, shoving him into Prado. Around them, people gasped. Prado stumbled back, shock in his eyes. The human crashed to the floor. Dancers turned. Someone on the edge of the dance floor screamed.

She whirled and pushed through the crowd. The music changed. Now, the bass was slower, like a deep, steady heartbeat. It vibrated up from the floor and into her legs. Lights flashed overhead—red, blue, and violet.

Have to get out of here. It was too dark, with too many people. She needed to get outside, where Prado couldn’t chase her without attracting notice.

The bar loomed ahead, its sleek surface reflecting the flashing lights. People clustered in knots, drinks in hand. Several bartenders moved up and down the bar, accepting money and distributing drinks. At the far end, an exit sign blazed an angry red.

Lily headed for it, hurrying down the bar, past barstools and patrons. Laughter and music swirled around her.

Out of nowhere, she was shoved sideways. Cold liquid splashed across her chest and chin. She regained her balance, then sucked in a shocked breath. Liquid dripped from her face and into hair that had fallen over her shoulder, clumping the strands together.

“Oh man, my bad!” A man in a dress shirt and suit pants stumbled back. He raised a half-empty glass, its paper umbrella askew. “I didn’t see you.”

She swiped at the liquid soaking her shirt, rum and lime overwhelming her senses. She wrinkled her nose. Tropical drinks were the worst. The sugar made everything sticky.

The man huffed. “Aren’t you going to apologize?”

---