Page 41 of Ravaged Wolf
The four wheelers are actually designed to seat two people with full-sized butts. This is basically two females sharing a banana seat.
Nia revs the engine. Pritchard hops onto the other dirt bike and pulls even with us, flashing Nia a sharp-toothed grin.
“Loser sucks the winner’s dick?” he somehow manages to say around his descended fangs.
Nia cocks her head as if she’s considering, and while Pritchard shifts in his seat to free his tail, she reaches back, grabs my arms, and wraps them around her middle. “Hold on tight, Isabella Cinderella,” she mutters.
I open my mouth to say my real name is Isolde, but before I can say a word, she peels off, kicking up a cloud of dirt. I get a face full, and for the next several seconds, I’m too busy sneezing out dust particles to freak out.
Nia whoops and leans forward. I lean with her. I’m her backpack now. I don’t dare move a hair on my own. What if I tip us over?
We’re not wearing helmets, and the trees encroach even more into the road the farther we get from the barricade. Nia slaloms left and right, avoiding roots and rocks and ruts carved from rainwater. Pritchard catches up before we’ve gone a few yards, but for some reason, he can’t seem to pass us.
My heart is thumping in my chest. Wind rushes in my ears, whipping my hair against my cheeks. Everyone but Pritchard falls far behind until I can’t even see them when I work up the courage to turn my head and look back.
I’m terrified and wide awake and somehow, I’m not falling off the bike. The road and woods are mostly cast in cool shadow from the canopy high overhead, but here and there, the sun sneaks through gaps in the leaves and dapples the ground. As we race, we sail through the sunny spots, warmth bursting onto my face and disappearing in a flash.
I squeeze Nia with my thighs as tightly as I can and lift my chest a little off her back. The wind snaps at me harder,but I don’t mind. The forest air smells dark and deep and lushly green, like something out of dreams I had as a pup.
I’m still afraid, but that’s not the thing I ammost. I’m alive. That’s what I am.
We hit a straightaway where there aren’t any washouts or rogue tree tentacles, and Nia opens up the throttle. Pritchard does, too, coming within a few feet of our rear wheel, but for some reason, he’s still not able to pull even with us.
Nia must worry that he will, though, because she shouts back, “Hold on! Detour!” And she veers off the road, up an embankment, into the woods.
I hug her tighter than I’ve ever hugged anyone before. We bounce so hard, my teeth click, even though I’ve got them clenched together as hard as I can. She weaves between tree trunks, nimbly picking her way through obstacles, cursing a blue streak when her tire spins out or she hits a bump too hard, and we get air. I hold on for dear life. There is nothing else I can do.
We don’t shake Pritchard. He’s still on our tail, although he’s fallen further behind. He’s picking his way more carefully. Nia plows ahead like confidence is everything.
She might be right. By the time she intercepts the road again, Pritchard is so far behind us, I can’t see him. I only know he’s there by the fading sound of his engine.
Nia is all grins, and she actually slows down to a leisurely pace for the last leg of the trip to Old Den. I vaguely remember the terrain from Academy field trips, but the woods seem denser and greener and somehowwilderthan they did back then.
We’ve lost the others, too. It’s just Nia and me when we swing around another log barricade—this one with guards in wolf form stationed on top—and the road opens to a grassy clearing about the size of a basketball court. Niapulls up to a row of hard-used dirt bikes and four-wheelers and parks. I slide off the back onto wobbling legs.
Nia hollers, “Whoo!” and slings an arm around my shoulder. “Looks like I’m getting my dick sucked.”
The people around the clearing stop what they’re doing and stare our way. We seem to be standing in the middle of a kind of commons. Paths emerge from the woods and converge on the commons from the east and west, and opposite from where Nia and I are standing is the round entrance that leads into the Old Den.
This area was a gravel parking lot when I was a pup. Now it’s covered with thick grass, and the mouth to the Old Den is decorated with an arch strung with woven ropes of wildflowers. Peering down one of the paths, I can just make out the corner of a red cottage among the trees, a fairy tale house with a steep pitched roof and white gingerbread trim along the eaves.
To our left, a group of males stand around, poking a fire burning in a rusty metal drum. A few females sit with their babies on a blanket under a pine tree. Back by the vehicles, two males stop working on a disassembled ATV to gawk at us. Everyone is staring.
“Let’s go pay our respects to the bossman,” Nia says with a reassuring smile and nudges me with her elbow.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my navy-blue capris. I already don’t fit in. I’m dressed like an accounting intern in my white collared shirt. Everyone I see is wearing mismatched hand-me-downs like scavengers, even the two or three higher-ranked people I recognize from the Tower. Even though the weather isn’t at all hot, several people aren’t wearing shirts, including two of the females hanging out on a picnic blanket.
At least my hair fits in. It’s a wild mess. I run my shakingfingers through it, working out the knots, as I follow Nia across the commons.
I’m nervous, but the adrenaline from the crazy ride with Nia hasn’t faded yet, and it’s giving me a little extra courage at the prospect of meeting my new temporary alpha. I’m straightening my shoulders when I see him.
Fate gives me no warning. No lightning strike or gut feeling.
I’m walking toward the Old Den entrance, and then, all of a sudden, Trevor Floyd strides out, straight toward me, carrying a load of two-by-fours by resting the planks on his shoulder.
Time stops. Sound fades like someone shoved cotton balls in my ears. My wolf leaps to her feet, fully awake in an instant.
I clutch my chest. I feel him. Shock. Loathing. Horror.
