Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
When I flew into Sitka this afternoon, I walked thirty minutes from the airport to the harbor, hauling my backpack in this dress.
The bag contains everything I own.
Exhaustion forced me to hide it under the pier while I searched for Jag.
I need that bag. I need a place to sleep. And a meal. Beyond that, I’ll figure it out.
I don’t have money. Definitely not enough to travel back to Anaheim. Not that I have anything left there. I hate Gavin almost as much as I hate my brother.
My fingers strangle the rifle’s strap on my shoulder. I didn’t realize I was still holding it until now, but I don’t loosen my grip.
It’s the only thing protecting me. The only thing keeping people away. I don’t trust anyone. Gavin was an exception, a mistake I’ll never make again.
My pulse rattles as I hurry along the vacant streets, seeking the shadows. Most businesses are closed for the night, the windows and doors draped in darkness. Except for the occasional bar and liquor store, it’s a ghost town. Too quiet. The slap of my footfalls could be heard in Canada. Or wherever Jag is lurking.
Up ahead, a man leans against the corner of a building, a cigarette lighting up his features in ember-red pulses.
Luminous eyes study me through a curtain of heavy lashes. Unnerving. Striking. Too unreal.
Black hair curls from beneath his beanie, his face both chiseled and soft, demonic and angelic, intimidating and beautiful on a level that wrings my stomach. He’s so tall and lean, all careless grace and rebellion encased in black leather.
I recognize him instantly.
He followed me to the tattoo shop. Now he’s here.
Still following me.
Jag knew his name. Wolfson. Does that mean he’s a regular customer at the shop? Or an employee? Is he covered in ink under all that leather?
Why do I care?
“Not every day I see a bride running down the street with a rifle.” His lips curve as he exhales smoke. “What’s the verdict? Will there be a honeymoon or a homicide?”
I duck my head and keep walking.
He pushes off the wall, flicking his cigarette into the gutter. His boots silently hit the pavement as he falls into step behind me.
“I get it.” His deep baritone rumbles with amusement. “The gown and gun combo makes you mysterious. Tragic, even.”
I keep my gaze forward. Ignore him. Maybe he’ll go away.
“Not much of a talker, huh?” His voice chases me like a shadow, full of unbothered charm. “Maybe you don’t trust me. That’d be a shame. I’m full of great bad ideas.”
I clutch the rifle harder, not sparing him a glance.
When I reach the harbor, I step off the sidewalk and slide down the embankment, careful not to slip on the rocks.
Crouching under the pier, I grope through the darkness until my fingers brush against the worn canvas of my backpack.
Relief washes over me. No one stole it.
I haul it up, sling it over my shoulder, and turn back toward the street, where Wolfson stands above me.
The moonlight hits him just right, and for a moment, I’m taken aback.
He’s so fucking beautiful but in every way that feels wrong. Like a broken angel with nowhere left to fall.
His black leather jacket molds to his physique, the edges decorated with metal spikes and chains. More black covers his long, muscular legs. A beanie slouches over his shaggy black hair, framing his features in shadows. His sculpted cheekbones reflect the light like cut glass.
Women in California spend hours contouring and injecting their faces to achieve the perfect, angular look he wears so naturally.
Lucky bastard.
Everything about him is both deliberate and careless. His tattered band tee, half-hidden beneath the leather. The heavy boots that seem built for running or wrecking things. The rings stacked on his fingers like stolen trophies. He radiates a strange, untamed energy that warns of trouble while begging for a closer look.
His vibe is a contradiction. Aloof yet all-consuming. A ghost with a heartbeat. A drifter hardened by life and wearing his ruin like an art form.
“Where to now?” His eyes—too blue, too wolfish—bore into mine. “Back to the airport?”
I push past with no destination other than away from this unsettling man.
“You sat on a plane in that dress?” He falls into step beside me, side-eying my ridiculous appearance. “Wore it all the way from California? That’s commitment, Cinderella.”
Cinderella?
I shoot him a questioning glower.
“There are two types. The one who flees the ball and the one who runs from her wedding. In both versions, she loses her slipper.” He angles down as if trying to see my feet. “We know which Cinderella you are.”
With a huff, I kick at the filthy, shredded skirt and pick up my pace.
I didn’t lose a fucking slipper. But when Gavin confessed his betrayal this morning, I lost my ability to think straight. In a fit of rage, I booked the first flight to Sitka, maxed out my credit card to buy the ticket, and had fifteen minutes to pack a bag and catch the plane.