Page 81 of The Strongest Wolf

“They will.” A few weeks ago, maybe even a few days ago, I wouldn’t have been so certain of that. I mean, it wasn’t long ago that I was almost positive Galen would leave Hardin and never come back.

But now I know in my headandin my heart that he feels the same way about me as I do about him.

Before the creepy motel guy can think of some other way to perv on me, I make my escape, gritting my teeth when I feel his eyes on my ass following me out of the glass-fronted office and across the parking lot.

“Please let that be the only creep I have to deal with,” I breathe as I climb into the car and start up the engine.

A glance reveals the cell phone battery is flashing. It still doesn’t turn on when I press the power button, but I’m hoping when I stop for food somewhere, I’ll be able to call Galen and let him know I’m back on the road.

He must be home by now. Or if not, pretty close to it.

My hands tighten around the steering wheel and I chew on my bottom lip at the thought of walking up to his front door, knocking, and coming face to face with his pack.

“But you won’t be alone, Sierra. He’ll be there. Nothing to worry about,” I murmur. “Sure, it’ll feel like you’re holding his hand, but first-day nerves are okay.”

Nodding firmly, I start up the car and pull out of the motel parking lot.

What’s going to happen during a pack run is something I don’t dare let myself think about.

An hour later, when I stop to grab yet another greasy burger and fries, I stuff my face as I turn on the cell phone, which is now showing a half-charged battery.

Other than the text message he sent hours before telling me to call when I’ve had some sleep, there’s no other message from Galen. His phone rings out, and I hang up, assuming he must still be on the road since the traffic is getting more insane the closer I get to New York. That, or he’s home and busy dealing with a million issues with his pack that only an alpha can resolve.

After stuffing my face, I hit the road.

Soon, focusing on the road takes up more and more of my attention. Now more than ever, with car horns blaring and the ridiculous number of people cutting me off or flipping me off, it’s hitting me just how inexperienced a driver I am.

That and I hate people.

Every single last one of them.

Dexter seems like a tranquil haven compared to the teeth-grindingly rude drivers and the insane amount of smoke and pollution burning my nose and stinging my eyes.

The sky is turning dusky as late afternoon segues into the evening when I pass the welcome sign for a town called Wylder.

This is home now.

I’m going too fast to read the population number in tiny print at the bottom of the sign, but I doubt more than ten thousand people live in such a small town.

It’s a little bigger than Hardin, but it has a similar cozy charm that makes it clear why I’d sometimes glimpse a flicker of homesickness in Galen’s eyes when he talked about his pack.

Letting GPS guide me along the quiet main street and past the sleepy suburban side streets, all I spot on the long road out of town are tall green trees—spruces and firs—on either side.

My heart pounds harder with each passing mile because I’m minutes away, and I don’t know whether I’m more excited or terrified. But before I can dwell too long on how I feel, a narrow side road comes into view, and I know I’ve reached my destination.

After a second’s pause, I make the turn.

I drive for about ten minutes through a sparse forest, and a reddish-brown farmhouse with a wraparound front porch comes into view.

Galen said he and his pack had renovated a crumbling-down house, but you wouldn’t believe the farmhouse had known even a day of disrepair from how good a job they’ve done. There are a couple of other wooden buildings nearby. Small enough that I guess they must be used to store garden equipment, or maybe other packmates live in them the way the Blackshaws had cabins in their forests.

But the wooden buildings must be recent additions, since the wood is a pale gold that doesn’t look old enough to have been standing for a decade or more.

Near the right corner of the farmhouse, I spot a couple of vehicles parked just behind. With no idea if the grassy clearing is where I’m supposed to park, I slow the car to a stop a few feet from the front door and stare up at the brightly lit house.

The lights both upstairs and down make it clear that people are home.

But I don’t move. The fear curdling my stomach is making it impossible to even breathe, let alone get out.

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