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)
I track Wolf by feel, following his restless orbit through the cabin.
He stops in the doorway of the cockpit, a hand braced on the bulkhead, and speaks quietly with Monty.
From the moment we left the nightclub, Monty hasn’t relaxed his jaw or released his breath. He wears the look of a father who knows his son keeps stepping into fires he can’t follow. He’s terrified of losing Wolf again.
Wolf lowers his brow to Monty’s head and murmurs something that makes Monty’s shoulders loosen a fraction. Whatever Wolf says, it’s meant only for Monty, a quiet assurance from a son who knows precisely how much fear he leaves in his wake and is asking to be trusted anyway.
He checks Kody next, a quick scan, a wordless exchange of eye contact I can’t begin to decipher.
Then he’s standing before me. Baptized by Adrian Crowe’s jugular. Blood cakes his inked smile, clings to his jaw, and mats into his hairline.
The eyeliner didn’t survive the night. It smudges his eyes into dark ruin and bleeds down his cheeks in inky trails that cut through drying red.
More gore splatters his ivory lace skirt that hangs obscenely over mean thigh-high boots. The rings and necklace are gone. The vest and bomb long gone. He’s shirtless, his chest bludgeoned with more scars than I have the years, or the right, to count. Old lines. New ones. Wounds that healed clean. Others that didn’t bother.
I’ve seen monsters up close. I hunted one for most of my life.
Wolf isn’t that.
He’s aftermath. Drenched in blood that isn’t his. Hair wild. Eyes chillingly ferocious. He’s never looked more beautiful.
“You look like roadkill.” He gives me a once-over and wrinkles his nose. “Come on.”
He offers his hand, and I take it without hesitation.
At the rear, he pushes open the narrow bathroom door. The shower stall is barely more than a coffin with plumbing.
“You first.” He glances at it, then at me, mouth twitching. “I’ll help.”
We both know it’s impossible. There isn’t room for the two of us to breathe, let alone move.
“Rain check.” I brush my thumb along his bottom lip.
He grasps the hand I hold to his face, presses a kiss to my palm, and steps back.
The door seals. The hum of the engines dulls, replaced by the hiss of water. When it hits my skin, it hurts. Everything does.
The stream runs red immediately. Ten days of rust-dark filth and nightmares.
I brace my palms against the wall, forehead following, and take inventory.
Shoulder. Dislocated ten days ago and slammed back in without finesse. It’s stiff, sore, but holding.
Wrist. Broken a month ago and still aches, but usable.
Ribs. Kicked by boots and bruised into a kaleidoscope of colors. Breathing is tight, but no stabbing pain. Nothing broken.
Face. Swollen, tender, jaw clicks when I open my mouth. Probably fine.
Eyes. The skin around them burns where the metal prongs dug in, tiny cuts I feel more than see. I rinse carefully, blinking through the sting.
The water clears, pink fading to nothing.
After I brush my teeth, I stand there longer than necessary, steam fogging the walls, grounding myself in the simple fact that I’m upright, unrestrained, and alone with my thoughts for the first time since Crowe’s men took me.
Outside the door, I hear Wolf shift his stance. Waiting. Guarding.
When I shut off the water and reach for a towel, the door cracks. An arm shoves through, holding out clean clothes.
“I didn’t see your duffel bag.” Wolf meets my eyes through the opening, his brow creasing.
The same worried look he gave me that night, when he asked if the bag was all I had to my name.
“They took the duffel.” I accept the clothes from him. “It was part of the setup to make it look like I killed your guards and skipped town.”
“They killed Declan.”
“I know.” My stomach twists. “I’m so sorry, pup.”
He looks away and waits while I dress. The lounge pants and plain tee fit perfectly. They must belong to Wolf. He and I are the same size. I pull the neckline to my nose and sniff. Delicious. Definitely Wolf.
While Wolf showers, I stretch out on the narrow sofa at the back of the plane, and my eyes drift closed despite myself.
I’m halfway under when the door slides open.
Wolf steps out in similar lounge wear, soft fabric clinging where it shouldn’t. His black hair drips on his shoulders, the blood and makeup gone. Clean skin, except not entirely.
The sharpie lines remain, albeit faded and pink, as if he scrubbed them until his skin screamed.
“I can’t…” He gestures helplessly at his face, holding a bottle of hand sanitizer. “If Frankie sees this…”
“Come here.” I push myself up, making room for him on the couch between my legs.
He settles there, facing me, shoulders hunched. I take the bottle from his hand, soak the cloth, and bring it to his cheek.