Page 66 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

“And let’s be clear—I’m not that person for you.”

I clench my jaw, caught somewhere between relief and indignation, wrestling my dragon back under control.

Not that person.

The words settle into my bones, but they don’t ease the pull of the scent, or the tangled feeling that has my dragon prowling and restless. Wade scratches the back of his neck, his eyes distant for a moment, like he’s listening to something just out of my reach.

Then he sighs.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters, almost to himself. He turns back to me, those sharp blue eyes locking on, like he’s made a decision he doesn’t entirely like.

“I have a feelin’—a real strong one—that I’m supposed to introduce you to someone.”

He pulls a phone from his pocket, glances down at it, then holds it out to me.

“Gimme your number. Got a lot goin’ on tonight, but I’ll call you in a few days, bring you out to the farm. Name?”

I freeze, throat tight, my mind a tangled mess of instinct and confusion. Wade lifts an eyebrow, waiting, and the first name that pops into my head blurts out before I can stop it.

“Jeff.”

I wince. Jeff?Really?My dragon snarls in disgust.

Wade smirks, his gaze full of dry amusement, like he’s humoring a particularly dumb puppy.

“Alright,Jeff.”

He hands me the phone, and I punch in my number, each tap feeling like I’m sealing a trap around myself.

I hand it back, my fingers brushing his just long enough for the scent to flare hot again, my dragon pushes at the edges of my mind.

Wade eyes the screen, then looks me over, that easy smile settling back onto his face like it’s never left.

“Well, maybe you’re supposed to meet my son,” he says with a chuckle.

Not your son, I think, a cold certainty settling in my gut. Because now, with the breeze thinning out the scent, I’m almost positive.

Sunday is this man’s daughter.

The encounter leaves me buzzing, rattled, the lure of that damn scent still tangled in my senses. Each step back to my car feels jagged, my frustration sharpening into something darker. Her name lingers on my tongue, bitter but addictive.

These people, this place—they’re just pieces on the board.

And one way or another, I’ll get through them, or around them.

But I will get to her.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Crackerjack

— Sunday —

It’s a tight fit—all five of us crammed into the Judge. Not that she lacks the generous legroom and headroom of a ’60s muscle car, but my mates are very large people. Ben and Grayson especially.

I end up letting Gray drive. Ben calls shotgun and I’m tucked in the back, pressed between Tomas and Shadow.

I try to lose myself in the guttural groan of the engine—the way it builds and falls, a steady crescendo like a storm gathering strength with each smooth shift of gear. I imagine the air and fuel mixing, the pistons firing in perfect rhythm. It’s been my meditation for as long as I can remember.

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