Page 79 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

I freeze. The idea of being punished—of feeling that weight—sends a jolt of excitement through me, darker than I want to admit. I force a laugh, but it’s hollow, too quick.

“Whatever, Colt,” I mutter, brushing it off.

His expression shifts, and I feel the pressure of his gift. “Yuck, I did not need to know that about you.” He shakes his head, half-disgusted, half-amused. “You really keep things interesting.”

I let out a small laugh, then glance at the horizon. “Guess I’ll face the music. But I’m blaming you if I end up grounded.”

Colt smirks, tipping his beer toward me in a mock-toast. “I’ll take the hit, little sister. Always got your back, even when you’re being stupid.”

“Especially when I’m being stupid,” I correct.

“Exactly.” He leans back, taking another swig, the smile lingering as we wait for the inevitable sound of tires on gravel.

Chapter Thirty Two

A Prescott Specialty

— Tomas —

She left her damn phone off. She drove herself to the middle of nowhere without protection, without a single thought about the threats closing in on us.

And because the universe is a twisted bastard, the second I heard the Judge’s engine fade down the driveway, a message came through: the Council greenlit a task force to investigate the coup in Elba. Guess who’s being brought in for questioning?

Wade tosses me the keys. I’m halfway out the door before I’ve even registered what it all means. Ben and X stay behind, guarding the twins and Mishka. Wade’s got the rest—securing the perimeter, briefing everyone. Val will be up in ninety minutes. That has to be enough. It has to be. Because there’s no way I can stay here. Not with Sunday and Grayson out there, unguarded.

My wolf is losing it, howling, ripping apart every rational thought until only one word remains: go.

The big black truck roars to life beneath me, the engine vibrating through my bones, gravel spitting under the tires as I peel out. I grip the wheel hard, knuckles white, forcing my focus sharp, trying to keep the fear from slipping through the cracks.

The road stretches ahead, fields blurring past in streaks of green and gold, gravel roads cutting between rows of cotton and rusted-out barns. The truck’s engine growls as I push harder, faster. There’s too much land between me and her, and notenough time. I have to get there before anything happens. I have to make sure she’s safe, make sure they’re safe—or the weight of it will crush me.

We’ve got people coming. I don’t know who or why or how soon, but I know it’s bad news stacked on bad news. They might already be here. Tracking her.

Wade said someone’s been asking about her—someone who sounds a hell of a lot like Silas. I had to explain that no, we shouldn’t be inviting him to dinner. But I’ve got his number now.

Maybe it’ll come in handy someday.

The sinking sun hits me right in the eyes as I push the truck harder. The engine growls beneath me, like it knows I need more speed. I hate this feeling—the helplessness of being a step behind, chasing down a threat I can barely see. A threat that’s got its sights locked on my family. On her. On him.

My wolf snarls, ready to pick her up by the scruff and drag her back where she belongs. He flashes an image in my mind: tossing her next to Grayson and bolting the door behind us. Feeding Gray last night, sleeping with him close, has put the wolf in a possessive mood.

I grind my teeth and remind us both: that’s not how this works. She’s not a pup to be corrected. She’s my mate. She made a choice. But Goddess, it’s hard to wrestle that instinct down—especially when she promised, just hours ago, not to pull this shit. The broken promise twists the knife deeper.

The Judge sits by the farmhouse, its engine still ticking with heat. I’m out of the truck before it even dies, her honeyed scent threading through the breeze, tangled with the stale bite of mid-grade beer.

Colton rises as I hit the porch. Sunday’s voice is light, carefree, like she hasn’t just upended my world. Like she has no clue how bad things are. The casualness of it makes my anger coil tighter.

Colt’s eyes meet mine, narrowing, though there’s no surprise. He knew I was coming. Of course, he did.

“Looks like the music’s here,” he drawls. “Must’ve been doin’ eighty the whole way.” He tilts his head toward the galvanized bucket, sweating in the afternoon heat. “Why don’t you grab a beer?” His voice is smooth, easy. “Chill out a bit.”

I feel his magic brush over my skin—a subtle, cooling prickle, coaxing me to relax.

It doesn’t work.

I ignore Colt’s magic, my focus narrowing to Sunday. She’s halfway turned in her seat, a beer bottle dangling loosely in her hand. Her eyes meet mine, and something flickers there—surprise, maybe guilt. I don’t fucking know. Without a bond, I’m left guessing, like a damn human.

She sets the bottle on the railing and pushes to her feet. “I know, I know. I’m sorry,” she says, her voice softer than usual, the corners of her mouth tight. She knows how much trouble she’s in. “I should’ve let you know. I just needed some space—”

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