But we didn’t. And the alphas are waiting, vengeance thick on their breaths.
Inside the circle, gathered around the bonfire, wolves and enforcers move themselves into a rough half-moon, every pair of eyes locked on us like we’re already bleeding out and they’re here for it. Their growls thrum under my skin, a low, vibrating buzz that won’t shut up. It’s not like the nice white noise that knocks you out at night; it’s more like a leaf blower on a Sunday afternoon that makes you want to tear your own ears off.
The alphas’ so-called dais sits in the center. It’s nothing more than two scavenged barstools wobbling on a couple of wooden pallets. Real regal. If either of them leans back an inch, they’ll crash straight through the slats. I put that shit out into the universe. If I’m marked for death, I’ll take whatever comedy the universe wants to throw in.
Behind the trucks, they’ve strung up a bloodstained banner emblazoned with the pack sigil—two wolves sharing a brain, and each head has an ornate T hidden inside. Think biker gang patch meets crest. It probably terrifies other wolves, but thedried blood just makes me cringe. It looks like someone left their murder-carpet out in the rain and called it décor.
Dozens more pack members cram into the clearing, jeering and baring their teeth like they’ve been waiting all week for this. The ones in front are the poor bastards whose bikes we wrecked. Can’t even blame them, they want their pound of flesh, and we made ourselves easy targets.
The rest? They’re here for the spectacle. They’re here out of loyalty and bloodlust. Same thing really, when you think about it. The air is thick with sweat, dominance, and the kind of excitement wolves get right before something dies.
Three of the wolves whose bikes we wrecked stalk forward. They come at us with purpose carved into their faces, eyes hard enough to cut glass. But up close? God save me, it looks like the three of them have never seen a bar of soap in their lives. Their nails are long and filthy with what could be mud, grease, nicotine, or maybe blood—take your pick.
And the hair. All that long, stringy, down-the-back hair. At this point, I’m convinced the pack holds annual contests for Who Can Look the Most Mangy. Maybe that’s how they got their bikes—as prizes for being the top three.
They yank us off the truck bed like we’re nothing more than oversized G.I. Joe dolls.
The crowd parts for us, but not by much. Every step forward comes with a shoulder slam or an elbow to the ribs, like they’re trying to bruise us on principle. I guess I should stipulate no open casket and save everyone the horror. Oh wait… everyone who’d attend my funeral is already here.
A foot shoots out in front of Froggy, and he goes flying, hitting the mud hard enough to splash me. His cheek is streaked with brown, and he’s already on his feet, ready to lunge, when an enforcer clamps a hand around his collar and flings him toward the alphas like he weighs nothing.
A second later, I get the exact same treatment. Yanked, shoved, thrown.
I tilt my head up at the enforcer gripping me. Steve. Of course it’s Steve.
“Look, man, I don’t swing that way. And even if I did, I’m not into the rough stuff. So, unless you’re planning on buying me dinner first, you’re wasting your time.”
That earns me a kick square in the kidneys. Pain detonates up my spine, and all I can manage is a wheeze through my nose. Opening my mouth right now feels like a great way to spit an organ onto the dirt.
Perhaps this isn’t the moment for sarcasm.
“Get them on their knees,” Thorne commands.
The enforcers shove us upright, the wet earth sucking us in. I lose a couple of inches, which isn’t great when you’re trying to look like you aren’t intimidated. Rain batters the ground in a cold, relentless downpour, and my mouth fills with the gritty taste of dirt. My wolf surges, wanting to snarl, bite, do something, but this is exactly what they want.
Humiliation first. Pain second.
My gaze lands on Thorne, and I carefully school my face into something neutral.
The man is built like a tank. Six foot five, neck as thick as my thigh. I once watched him crack a watermelon with his bare fists. The saddest part? He didn’t even eat any of it afterward.
Tattoos of angry vipers wind up his arms. How cliché. What little energy I had has just left me with all theFifty Shadesshit going on here or I’d roll my eyes.
His jaw is so square it looks carved, not grown. I’ve never seen the man without a permanent five-o’clock shadow. Maybe he had it tattooed. If I wasn’t choking down blood and bile, I might actually find that thought amusing.
To distract myself from what feels like a wrecking ball parked against my spine, I imagine the scenario:I want cool snakes winding up my arm. Oh, and while you’re at it, I can’t grow a beard for shit. Mind doing me a solid?
The corner of my lip tugs up in an attempt at a wry smile, but when Thorne glares at me, I wipe it off my face. Sweat and heat roll off him, filling the air with the stench of onions and stale cheese. Maybe I’ll use my last words to recommend a great bar of soap. But then my inspection lands on his crooked nose and the scar from his temple to his cheek, and I decide to keep my teeth where they are—at least until I’m too dead to feel more pain.
He catches me staring and pins me with a cold glare that could turn Medusa to stone. His eyes flick almost gold from their usual dull brown, reminding me that those are the eyes of a killer. They never soften, even when he laughs. His wolf must be close to the surface.
I turn my attention to Talon, which has nothing at all to do with the frigid death-stare I’m getting from Thorne. Talon is leaner, but don’t let that fool you. Six foot four, sinewy, always dressed like he’s about to negotiate a deal that ends in bullet holes and bloodshed. His standard uniform is just as cliché as his brother’s tattoos. Black jeans, stainless steel chains hanging from the pockets, rings on every one of his fingers except for the pinkie on his right hand, which is missing. Rumor has it, Thorne bit it off when they were children. Talon is handsome in a snap-you-like-a-twig way. Like his brother, his grin never reaches his pale-gray eyes.
Thorne lifts his hand, and silence descends over the clearing.
Even the cricket that has been going on somewhere close by goes quiet—one second chirping, the next? Gone. Either he noped out, or the rest of the cricket clan executed him for almost getting them all killed.
I lower my eyes, but the leers practically crawl into my line of sight anyway. These people look way too excited.
