Page 98 of The Weakest Wolf

Bowen’s confusion doesn’t last nearly long enough, and he lunges toward me. I push away, my ass sliding along the floor. His fingers stretch toward my neck.

As my hands close around the nearest cabinet door, I pray it contains something nice and heavy that I can throw in his face. A second later, I realize I have just the thing in my hand. So I swing the door as hard as I can, smiling grimly at the growl which erupts from Bowen’s throat when the door makes contact.

His hands stop reaching for me.

I push myself to my feet, my eyes already scanning for another better weapon. It settles on a large metal pot on the stove, and I sprint for it. Footsteps follow.

Please be hot; please be burning lava levels of hot. Because if anyone deserves it, it’s this guy.

I seize the pot by the handle, turn and launch it at him. Chicken and vegetable soup hit him full in the face, but from the lack of an agonizing scream, it looks like the guy upstairs didn’t answer my prayer. So I throw the pot at his head.

It makes a hollow ringing sound as it bounces off, clattering against the cabinets and the floor before coming to a stop.

Bowen’s eyes are fully wolf now, and seeing the fury in them, I know whatever intimate plans he might’ve had before, he doesn’t now.

He looks ready to skip right over the torture and jump right into the killing me as painfully as he possibly can.

Backing up, I scrabble for more weapons. My fingers snatch up the heavy chopping board, which I whip at his throat like a Frisbee. He knocks it aside and keeps coming at me.

“You’re not getting out, Sierra.” He swipes carrot out of his eye when it drips from his hair. “This ends here. Now.”

I take my eyes off him long enough to dive for the knife block.

It’s a mistake.

In the next moment, his hand is tight around my throat and I can’t breathe. My feet leave the floor.

“As I said, it all ends—”

I kick out.

It’s only luck I make contact because I’m too busy choking to aim. That or the guy upstairs feels Bowen deserves a hard kick to the balls. I agree.

His hand releases me, and I drop to the floor, thinking I’ll get away while he’s busy cupping himself.

That’s mistake number two.

As I’m going back for the knife block, he bounces my head off the marble countertop, and I slump to the floor. My head pounds in time to my heart, and each pulse makes my head hurt more.

A long moment later, I realize he’s talking. “… beg. But I guess you must not be like Mom after all.”

With my eyes on the blood dripping from a cut on my head, I push myself to my knees. “Liar,” I whisper, because talking any louder than that hurts too much. “My mom never would.”

I cry out when he grabs my hair and forces me back to my feet. “No lie. If you choose not to—”

“No,” I say. “She would rather die than beg.”

Bowen stops dragging me to stare into my eyes. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.” I bite out.

He doesn’t respond for so long that I know I’m right—that Galen was right. The things Bowen said were just meant to break me. And they nearly did.

Rage ignites in my belly. I feel the slow burn of it sweeping through me at the things he made me believe. He made it too painful to even think about Mom.

A sudden awareness fills my head, and I startle in surprise.

You’re here.

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