Page 120 of Roaring Flames

And I notice that this time, just before he drives away, he puts on the helmet and jacket.

Forty-Six

IZZY

The day of the barbecue, I wake with the inexplicable tug of dread pulling at my stomach. It causes my movements to be slow and sluggish as I get ready for the day.

The weather is chilly, though nothing like it was a few days prior. Even so, I choose to dress in a loose, off-the-shoulder sweater and a pair of jeans. I call it my “basic bitch” outfit, but it makes me look pretty. I keep most of my hair down, though I do pull a few strands away from my face and twist them up into a clip.

I can’t believe that I’m going to a party withwerewolves. Actual, honest-to-god werewolves. Though…are they really considered werewolves if they don’t shift during the full moon?

It feels strange to be enjoying life after what happened with Minnie, but Hale assured me that this is completely natural. They don’t have funerals for shifters—at least, not in the traditional sense. Instead, they throw parties to honor the shifter’s life and perform some sort of ritual to reincarnate her wolf into a younger shifter.

Or something.

I don’t quite understand all of the details.

When I mentioned to Hale that Minnie wasn’t my biggest fan, he replied, “This barbecue isn’t just for her.”

I wonder if he was referring to the other two women who died.

Larissa, the shifter I fought in the ring, and Ali, the woman I found in the barn.

A chill skates down my spine.

It seems as if I’m surrounded by death, and nothing I do allows me to escape it.

I throw my discarded pajamas into the laundry bin and then spin around…only to have my heart jump out of my chest at the sight of Lissa sitting up on her bed. She looks rumpled, her dark hair sticking up in all directions and shadows hovering below her eyes.

“Lissa?” I blink at her. “Are you all right?”

Her lower lip begins to tremble. “D-don’t…don’t go to the party.”

“What?” I frown.

She clumsily gets to her feet and takes a step towards me. “Please don’t go.”

“Lissa—”

“I think something bad is going to happen.” She begins to pluck at the bottom of her sleep shirt.

“What do you mean?”

This is the most my foster sister has talked to me in…who knows how long. Most of our conversations over the past few days have been awkward and stilted—and usually end with Lissa rolling her eyes and stomping away.

A part of me prefersthatLissa over this one.

That uneasy feeling intensifies—the one that screams at me from all directions, clawing at my skin like jagged talons.

Lissa opens and closes her mouth repeatedly before releasing an airy laugh. “I’m being silly. Just… Just ignore me.”

“You’re not being silly,” I tell her. “What’s going on?”

She waves a flippant hand in the air. “Just a nightmare I had.”

If this were a horror movie, I would scream at the main character—aka me—to trust Lissa’s instincts andnotgo to the barbecue. I refuse to be the too-stupid-to-live heroine.

But then Lissa sighs and scrubs a hand down her face. “I think I’m just pissed that you and Jake are both invited, and I’m not.”

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