Page 22 of The Reaper's Vow
And I can’t exactly book us a room at the goddamn Holiday Inn while Lockhart’s wolves are combing the city for her scent.
So I drive.
Toward the last place I should be taking her. The last place she belongs.
Better the devil you know, I tell myself, knowing how much a fucking lie it is.
Karina
Ihate him.
I hate how calm he looks dragging me out of my apartment as if it is just a typical day for him.
I hate how he smells like cedar and smoke and something that curls around my throat and makes it hard to breathe.
And I really hate how my wolf responds.
She’s alert now, ears perked. Pleased. Like she’s finally found what she’s been waiting for.
Most infuriating of all is how she reacts to his rough handling. As if being yanked through the stairwell like a damn sack of potatoes is some kind of affection.
I can’t even blame him for being what he is. It’s not like I didn’t know about wolves. My parents made sure I knew. They spent my entire childhood drilling one rule into me—stay out of the were world. Hide what you are. Blend in. Keep your head down. Don’t shift unless it’s a full moon and do it far away from home. Don’t sniff the air in public. Don’t lose control.
And I listened.
Until tonight.
And now I’m trapped in a car with a stranger who makes my wolf roll over like a lovesick mutt.
“Where are we going?” I demand again, sharper this time.
Still, no answer.
His focus stays fixed on the rearview mirror, scanning the road behind us as if headlights might appear at any moment. His jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised his teeth haven’t cracked.
I could scream. I want to scream.
Because I’m not just angry, I’m humiliated. Exposed. My apartment, my life, all of it is gone. Every piece of the normal I worked so hard to build just burned to the ground the second this man showed up.
And what’s worse?
Part of me. Some wild, stupid part of me doesn’t care.
Because my wolf is pacing now. Eager. Interested. Claiming him with every breath I take.
I turn away from him and stare out the window, blinking hard.
I hate him.
But not nearly as much as I hate the part of me that already wants to follow him.
We’ve been driving for maybe ten minutes, and I can’t take the silence anymore. The hum of the road beneath the tires, the low growl of the engine, his tense profile bathed in the dullorange glow of passing streetlights—it’s all starting to wear on me.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest.
“So, you’re just going to keep driving in silence like I’m not owed any kind of explanation?”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at me.
