There’s a wild animal inside me.An unpredictable, unflinching killer who spent hours cutting up a man and didn’t feel a thing.
But Jag sees me.He looks past the fake smile and sees what others miss.
His eyes widen just a fraction, and he takes a slow step back.He’s bigger and stronger but smart enough to recognize a madman when he sees one.
I don’t break my stance.I don’t blink.I just watch him back off, feeling the savagery inside me settle.For now.
Then I turn and chase after the princess for a second time tonight.
I yank on the stupid wedding gown, tripping over the ripped hem as I dart out of the tattoo shop.A hateful gust of cold air slaps my face, and I suck in a breath, missing the California sun.
I need to return to the pier.
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.
