Page 112 of Roaring Flames

“Hang on,” he warns me, and his tone sounds huskier than normal.

“Just so you know, I told Ansel who I was with, so if I come back murdered, then he’ll know it was you.”

I don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling. “If you were murdered, you wouldn’t come back at all.”

“Ghosts don’t exist?” I try to tilt my head to the side but forget I’m wearing the damn helmet and nearly fall off the bike.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” He revs the engine. “Hold on. And whatever you do, don’t let go.”

Forty-Three

IZZY

I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before, and I can’t say it’s something I care to repeat.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. There’s something strangely appealing about being pressed against Reid the way I am, my soft curves a contrast to his hard muscles.

And it’s not like I’m afraid. Oh no. I actually wish I felt a little bit of fear. That would mean Reid was driving at the speed limit.

Instead, he seems content to pitter-patter along, barely reaching twenty miles per hour, as if he’s terrified I’m going to fall off the bike and break.

I’ve seen him drive before—more than once. He certainly didn’t drive like a granny then.

At the same time, I’m relieved he’s being careful, especially since I’m wearing the only helmet. I’m not sure even a wolf shifter can survive a crash on the highway.

Too soon—or not soon enough—we’re pulling off the road and down a dirt path. The trees here are thinner, though a few stubborn ones still scratch at my arms as we pass. I’m grateful for the jacket.

Reid pulls the bike to a stop at the edge of the tree line, where tall pine trees transition into a tranquil lake. The water ripples in the afternoon sun like a million minute diamonds.

“Why did you bring me here?” I ask, sliding off the bike.

Before I even can attempt to remove the helmet, Reid’s there, his expression grave but his hands gentle as he tugs the helmet off my head. For a long moment, we simply stare at each other. I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the color a startling contrast to the green and brown irises.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. No doubt, my hair is disheveled from the helmet. I can feel a few sticky strands clinging to my cheeks. His jacket is practically a leather dress on me. The bottom of it brushes my thighs. I’m most certainly a hot mess—but without the “hot” factor and with a huge emphasis on the “mess” part.

“Want to show you something,” he says at last, turning away as if it physically pains him to stare directly at me.

He begins to walk quickly—but very purposefully—down a tiny incline, towards the lake and the wildflowers surrounding it.

I remain rooted to the spot, unsure of what just happened, before I remove the jacket, drape it over the seat of the bike, and hurry after him.

“This place is beautiful,” I say.

I have to raise my voice to be heard over the rushing water.

He grunts but doesn’t respond.

“Is that why you wanted to show me it?” I press, staring down at my feet so I don’t trip over any loose roots or rocks.

I don’t even realize Reid has stopped until I plow straight into his back. He immediately spins around and places his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. Just as quickly, he releases me, taking a single step away so there’s space between us.

“Wanted to show you this.” He jerks his chin towards the ground.

My brows dip. “This?”

I follow the direction of his gaze.

Directly between us, in a perfect circle, is…dead grass. The brown, brittle blades look out of place amongst the greenery of the forest. A single flower wilts in its own bug-riddled refuse.

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