Page 3 of Ruthless Wolf

Inside the living area, she had a needlework sign that read “time heals all wounds.”

Bull-fucking-shit. Five years later and here I am, at a bar filled with the people who slaughtered my family, as I wait silently for an opening into their little group.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing, ready to infiltrate and destroy when they least expect it.

Across the bar, one of the rival pack’s most outgoing members throws back a beer and begins dancing. A familiar, sickening weight settles like rocks in my stomach, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to rip him apart right here, right now. These are the monsters who killed my family. In the endless days that have passed, they’ve blissfully lived their lives, gyrating, drinking, working, having children, falling in love, and every damn thing I stopped wanting on that fateful day.

For me, time couldn’t heal my wounds. It stopped.

Waiting. Breath held.

The rocks in my stomach continue to pile up, heavy and jagged. Yet, the moment I look up, they transform into butterflies.

It’s her.

All legs and curves and innocence, she’s a stark contrast to the hard edges and wickedness that we’re surrounded by. In all the time I’ve been watching her, I can’t figure out why she’s here. How could someone so seemingly harmless be part of such a vicious pack?

I shake myself mentally. She may look like sweetness personified, but she’s one ofthem.

The enemy.

More than that, that sheltered naivety is their weakness. My in.

Although I don’t intend to, my eyes roam up her body. Lean legs, sultry hips, tits that make my mouth dry, a mouth that I’ve seen from afar, but now realize it’s lush in a way that instantly tightens my gut. Trying to snap myself out of whatever the fuck is happening, I yank my eyes to hers.

And stop.

Vivid blue captures me. Swallows me. And holds me in a way I’ve never been held.

They connect with something deep. Maybe it’s something I thought died five years ago. Or maybe it’s something that may not have existed until this moment.

Just like this girl, it’s sweet. Beautiful. Too good to be possible.

But also hot. And aching. And electrifying.

I yank my gaze away, even as I curse myself. What the fuck is wrong with me? I should be jumping on the attraction that just crackled like lightning. Instead, I’m back to gazing at the bottom of my glass. Seems I’m too sober for this. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been so isolated that I only know how to communicate with a fifty-year-old woman about her latest crafting project.

Sifting through pickup lines in my head—that’s what human men do, right?—I nearly jump when she whispers in my ear. “What’s a guy like you doin’ in a bar like this?”

I look up, steeling myself this time. The crackle of energy is there as our eyes connect, but I keep my head on enough to realize something.

She’s making a move on me.

So much for sweet and innocent. I knew it was all an act.

The knowledge instantly realigns my equilibrium. I can play this game. And I might even enjoy it.

“Adeline, don’t go wastin’ your time on this man,” the bartender interrupts. “He’s here celebratin’ his anniversary.”

“Oh,” she says, her perfect mouth forming a delicious ‘o.’ Her hands flutter to her throat before she quickly drops them. She throws her black waterfall of hair over her shoulder. “Is that so?” She lifts my glass of bourbon to her nose, and shakes her head after taking a quick sniff. “More like a divorce. Bourbon? Really?”

Opening my mouth, I pause when she grabs my hands. “And no ring. Now most men when they cheat on their women don’t go announcing that it's their anniversary.”

“Good point,” the bartender agrees, raising an eyebrow at me.

I flash a smile, hoping it has more warmth to it than I feel. “It’s actually the anniversary of my dad’s death.” Every lie must have a bit of truth to it. “A bad car accident a few years ago.”

“Shit man, I’m sorry! I just assumed,” the bartender says. “Your next drink is on me, okay?”

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