Riley’s car was a death trap.
I eyed the vehicle with deep suspicion as she unlocked it. A rusted sedan that looked to be held together by optimism and prayers. The paint was peeling, the bumper was dented, and there was duct tape, actual duct tape, holding part of the side mirror in place.
The engine made concerning sounds when she started it: grinding, then coughing, then a wheeze that sounded distinctly fatal.
The passenger seat wobbled when I sat down. I tested the seatbelt. It stuck halfway.
“Is this... safe?” I asked.
“She’s reliable.” Riley patted the dashboard affectionately. “Mostly.”
“Mostly.”
“She’s gotten me everywhere I needed to go for the past eight years.”
“That doesn’t answer my question about safety.”
“She has character.”
“She has rust.”
“That’s part of the character.” Riley shot me a look, and there it was. The first hint of humor I’d seen from her since she shifted. “Scared, Alpha Prince?”
“Concerned,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Sure there is.” She put the car in reverse. The transmission made a sound that shouldn’t exist in nature. “Buckle up, Your Highness.”
“My seatbelt is jammed.”
“Just hold onto the dashboard. You’ll be fine.”
I was absolutely not going to be fine. I was going to die in this vehicle. Thirty-two years of life, trained to be a warrior since I could walk, survived battles that would make most wolves faint, and this is how it would end. In a rusted sedan on a mountain road with a woman who refused to let me comfort her.
We pulled out of the parking spot and started the long drive down the mountain. The roads were winding, the scenery beautiful, and I spent most of the trip silently praying to the goddess that this pile of rust wouldn’t break down in the middle of nowhere.
Every pothole made the car shudder. Every curve made the steering wheel shake. At one point, the radio turned on by itself, blasting music for three seconds before cutting out entirely.
“She does that sometimes,” Riley said.
“Of course she does.”
Somehow, miraculously, we made it in one piece. Small mercies.
Ryeville was small, charming in a quaint human way. A main street with local shops, a diner, a few scattered houses. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone and strangers stuck out.
Riley drove slowly, squinting through the windshield.
“It’s been a while,” she murmured. “Things look different.”
“Do you remember where the bookstore is?”
“I think so. Down this street, maybe? Past the...” She pointed. “Yes. There.”
I saw it. An old building with a weathered sign: WOODS & PAGES.
Riley parked outside. We sat in silence, both watching the storefront.
“Ready?” I asked.
