Page 8 of Nocturne
Hunter Wolfe.
He stares right at me — calm, smug as a god who knows he can’t be touched — and then he lets out that slow, cocky-ass grin, dripping with the kind of provocation that cuts straight through me.
My stomach twists.
Blood boils, thick like lava ready to blow.
My fingers tighten around the wheel, so hard it’s a miracle the leather doesn’t rip apart. I want to break thatsmug face. Wipe the arrogance off it with my fists.
Fuck.
I never forgave what he did the first time we crossed paths. I’d just joined Nocturne, all fire and fury, stupid enough to think I could serve justice with my own two hands. I went after some Iron Requiem pricks in a dark alley, thinking I’d bring order to chaos.
And this motherfucker?
He cut me with a knife.
Licked my blood like some sick, twisted psycho.
Since then, I’ve felt his eyes on me — like a predator, always watching.
The first rule in Nocturne is crystal clear: Anyonefrom Iron Requiem is the enemy.
No mercy. No hesitation.
This fucker shouldn’t be here. Not today. Not at this race.
This reeks of a setup.
Of blood waiting to be spilled.
I slam the window shut with a sharp click, grab my phone off the passenger seat, and type fast into the Nocturne group chat: Hunter’s here. Eyes open. Any funny move, shoot him in the fucking head.
The sound of a horn blasts in my ears, signaling the race is about to begin. The blondes take their positions, and another guy steps into view, a stopwatch in one hand and the mic in the other.
“Showtime’s about to begin,” he yells, “Three,”
The countdown starts, and the girls raise their flags above the starting line.
“Two,” he goes on, and my heart damn near bursts out of my chest, even though I’m used to this.
“One, let’s go!!!”
I narrow my eyes, grip the wheel harder, and slam my foot on the gas.
The roar of the other engines explodes around me. Smoke rises through the crowd, who’s screaming, jumping, tossing beer into the air like this is the best night of their lives.
The driver next to me, purple car, silver details, hits the gas a millisecond before I do, but we’re practically neck and neck.
The race is happening far from the city, in an abandoned airport, so I’m not worried about a damn thing. I’m gonna fuck these clowns up.
Quick glance in the mirror. They're all behind, except the purple car glued to my side. I refocus, grip the wheel, and punch the gas harder, overtaking the bastard.
But he keeps coming. Sticks to my rear and slams into me hard, throwing me off for a second. He tries to cut in on the left, but I block him—tight—leaving him nowhere to go.
In a few seconds, I’ll have to slow down to take a sharp right. I think fast: let him pass, let him think he’s won.
Idiot.
