Page 92 of Ravaged Wolf
I’m already a yard past him. “I’m good,” I call over my shoulder. “I won’t leave the territory.” I wave and keep trucking. Every step, I feel lighter.
I’m not running away. I’m just taking a break. I’m not the person anymore who hid from her problems.
I’m not that person anymoreI repeat to myself because it’s a habit now to coach myself forward with affirmations and reassurances, but between one step and the next, I realize that I’m not visualizing a possible future at all.
I’mreallynot that person.
She was broken. She’d been torn apart by her mate and forced to nurse her wounds surrounded by the people who cared so little for her that they’d practically set her up to be attacked. She couldn’t handle anything—noise, people, choices.
I fixed her. Ihealedher. Then I came for my mate. I fixedus. That’s all as true and real as fault and blame and hurt and loss.
I took my first steps, and I kept going, and his family will, too, or they won’t. I can feel hurt that they can’t or won’t welcome me with open arms, but I am not going to feelat fault. Or like everything is ruined or hopeless because we had a rocky start. It’s not ruined yet. I decide it’s not.
My pace picks up. My chest feels lighter.
And then another thing hits me—the key isn’t about taking the first step. Or at least, notjustabout taking the first step. The key is knowing that you can keep going. Every step thereafter is just as up to you as the first. I get why I never knew that. Mom and Dad didn’t believe I was capable of doing anything right. I was doomed from the start, and all my effort—the practices and studying and extracurriculars—was salt in the wound to them because no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t going to be what they really wanted. A dominant male.
But they’re so wrong. I am capable of—
I round a curve in the road. A white van screeches to a halt, kicking up dust and stopping inches away from me. The heat from its engine blasts my face. My heart slams into my ribs. Uncle Howell blinks at me through the window, his hands gripping the wheel. I was so lost in thought, I didn’t even hear them coming.
Uncle Howell doesn’t drive a white van. He has a Mercedes.
And then the side door slides open, and Dad leaps out, followed by Vaughn Lewis. What’s he doing here?
Vaughn is one of Brody Hughes’ henchmen. Like Brody, he’s been laying low since Madog returned.
Three more males spill out of the van. Two are friends of Dad’s from work. The third is Geralt Powell. I thought they were enemies. Even though Dad got the job, he still always talked shit about him. He’d say you can wash the stink of scavenger pussy off your cock, but nothing gets the stink of mating one off.
This is bad. I need to get out of here.
Uncle Howell cranks the emergency brake and gets out, leaving the door open. They all slowly stalk toward me, their hands in the air like they don’t mean any harm. Except Dad. His are fisted at his sides. His face is purple, and his wolf is so close to the surface that his jaw recedes as his cheekbones jut forward. He looks like a monster. My skin breaks out in a cold sweat.
When I was little, this is how he looked when he screamed at me. I’d stand in front of him at attention, like he demanded, so scared that I couldn’t breathe, all the while fighting off the darkness that edged my visionbecause surely, if I fainted at his feet, his wolf would eat me.
My body remembers like it was yesterday. I freeze. I need to run or scream, but I’m trapped inside myself by the child who learned too well the only way she could survive a male like him.
“Hello, Isolde,” Dad snarls through his fangs. “How considerate of you to come to us. Frankly, I thought it’d be harder.”
The males are fanning out. Circling me. I need to runnow. My pulse thunders, my hands tremble violently, but my legs won’t move.
“Not so mouthy now, are you?” he says, stalking closer until I can smell Mom’s pot roast on his breath.
Uncle Howell scowls down the road toward the den. “Throw her in the van. Let’s thank our good luck and get out of here.”
“We said we’d scope the den out ourselves,” Geralt Powell argues. “Madog’s not going to let us near his little diplomats when they come back.”
“Isolde can tell us everything we want to know,” Dad says, smirking. “She’ll be happy to talk once I’m done with her.”
My wolf cowers in a corner. She knows she’s outnumbered and overmatched. I need to run, but already it’s too late. Vaughn and Geralt have cut off my escape.
Dad exchanges a look with Uncle Howell. They’re going to make a move.
Do I fight? Can I even get my arms to swing?
How bad will they hurt me if I fight?
Mom always warned me never to bait my father’s wolf. She said he’s bigger, meaner, and your father can’t control him. Would he kill his own pup?
