Page 41 of Wolf.e

I scream and then somehow, I’m on my feet and running. I don’t get very far when I register the words, he mouthed to me were “don’t look.”

Too late.

I never thought that in facing my death, I would face this type of disbelief. Like this can’t be real, there has to be another way. This can’t be all I was put here on this Earth to do. Something or someone has to save me, don’t they? Did every action, every choice I’ve ever made lead me here, just like my parents always told me? If I had stayed with Evan, I’d be home safe on my living room sofa instead of trying to outrun a psychopath. All these thoughts crowd my mind as I bolt for the woods. My lungs burn as I run without stopping, uncontrollable sobs wrack my body and adrenaline courses through my veins.

He murdered that man. And by now he’s probably murdered the other one too. Murdered. And they had been tortured for who knows how long? They were missing body parts. Fingers. Teeth. Genitals? Images flash through my mind as I finally register them. The way the bigger man’s stomach was cut open in several places and leaking blood, the cuts deep, his one eye swollen shut. The smaller man’s arm was broken in more than one place and hanging limply in front of him. I blink to rid my mind of the memory, and more tears fall.

That’s where he went after dinner. To torture and murder those men. And it looked like it was second nature to him. Because it is. The voice in my head reminds me.

This man, I let him touch me. I wanted him. And even as he stood over them like their own personal reaper, I’m ashamed to admit I still wanted him.

And now he’s going to kill me too, and probably bury me with them.

Time passes in a blur. I’m covered in cuts and scrapes; I’ve fallen numerous times. I don’t know how long I’ve been running. I keep praying for a road, or a break in the trees so I can scream for help but there is none. I have nowhere to go and the sound of heavy boots on the ground behind me tells me to keep running, but I’m so tired. I have to stop.

“Brinley.” I hear Wolfe’s deep voice echo off the canopy of the woods, he doesn’t even sound winded. He sounds calm. I freeze, my back scrapes against rough, cold bark as I do my best to hide behind a tree. I can feel the sting of dirt in my scratched-up skin as I pant, so quietly I think I’m barely breathing.

“Running is pointless, I can fucking smell you, hummingbird.” His voice booms through the woods, closer this time.

I take off and run for as long as I can, almost twisting my ankle in the rough terrain more than once. Twigs snap under my wedge sandals, and I know I can’t go on much longer. All the while I can hear him; the sound of his even and steady boots crushing the dead leaves underfoot as he stalks me through the woods, is almost enough to make me scream. But screaming wouldn’t help me now. I’m not sure anything would.

I pause as I see light through the trees and desperately hope it's a road or another cabin, anything with people and the possibility of safety. I bolt towards it, moving my sore and tired feet as quickly as I can, begging my breath to be quiet so he doesn't hear it.

I see a large tree about twenty feet away and make that my destination, but before I can get more than five steps, a strong hand circles my throat and I’m being slammed backward into the thick trunk of a live oak. His other hand behind my head stops me from hitting it but the bark bites into my shoulders.

“Stop fighting me,” Wolfe bites out.

I don’t listen, I start to fight, scratching at him in protest. The fear of my imminent death fueling me.

“Don’t fight me,” he says as I cry out. He moves his hand from behind my head and snares both of my wrists, holding them captive in front of me so I can't continue scratching him and places his other large palm on my chest.

“Breathe,” he says in a way that almost feels soothing.

I try to suck in a deep breath, understanding how predators calm their prey before they murder them. “You’re going to… You killed…” I sob. “Those poor, innocent—”

“Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you ever call those men innocent,” Wolfe snarls in a low voice as his palm slides up over my heaving chest to grip my throat. Even in the dark, I can see the gray of his eyes boring into mine. He’s angry, yet I don’t feel as scared anymore. I am what my father would’ve called a masochist. Stupidly soothed by the man that is about to hurt me.

The hand on my throat loosens so Wolfe can gently graze his knuckles over it as if he is trying to decide between choking me and soothing me. It’s a dance I can’t make sense of.

“One of them blew up Jake’s truck the other night. Anyone could have been standing there, been inside it, and that man isn’t dead. He’s going to deliver a message for us to his piece of shit leader.”

My breath hitches as I try to catch it.

“The other one. The fucked-up bastard I shot—he groomed, drugged, and raped a sixteen-year-old girl almost a year ago, then shared photos and videos of it. He practically ruined her life. She wouldn’t even leave her house for two months.”

My stomach drops as time seems to stand still. Suddenly, I feel just as angry as he looks.

“And she’s family. One of my men’s little sisters.” His palm leaves my neck and presses back into my chest as it rises and falls. “It was a rival club. They weren’t happy. We did something that hurt their crank business in Atlanta, in one of their most profitable areas.”

“I can’t hear this. I don’t want to hear this.” I panic.

If I hear this, I’m dead.

“The girl was Mason’s little sister—it was a retaliation of the sickest kind, and it goes against everything men like us stand for. So, did I let her brother do unfathomable things to him? Yes.”

Mason’s sister? I shudder, thinking of Mason angry. I find myself wondering if this girl I don’t even know is okay.

As he speaks, Wolfe flips his hand over on my chest and his knuckles begin another leisurely graze over my collarbone, then to my shoulder, as his other still grips my wrists and I realize my breathing has involuntarily slowed. His hard body presses against mine and some fucked up part of me wants him here, feels safer with him pressed against me.

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