Page 59

Those scars live on my vision, like slashes to my sight, and after talking Wilde into driving me to Wayward, I’m left standing in the middle of the street where he’s dumped me. No plan, just a deep vendetta that’s poisoning my bloodstream.

It’s been longer than I can count since I’ve been anywhere with humans. I don’t like leaving the End, and these wide-open streets, with windows from shopfronts and apartments in every direction, make it impossible to reliably scope the area.

This is more reckless than I’m used to being, but there’s no way I can return home until I’ve done what I’ve come here to do.

Antonio has made an enemy tonight. And he doesn’t even know it yet.

The street is mostly deserted, with a convenience store open, like a bug catcher attracting prey, and just down from that, a more dimly lit bar. I head in that direction, sure that if I don’t find Antonio there, someone at least should know him. Wayward isn’t a big town, and while it’s no Wilde’s End, the degrees of separation are minimal.

I’m trying so hard not to focus on what Sasha told me, but his words are ringing in my ears. They’re keeping my anger well stoked, even with the long drive down here, and I hope Antonio is at the bar. I hope he’s sitting there, completely peaceful, waiting for my knife to meet his carotid artery.

Barbed fucking wire.

It was thrown out as a suggestion to use that on Wilde’s End’s perimeter at one point, and I’d knocked the idea down cold. It’s barbaric, and no animal should have to suffer the fate of being entangled in it just to guarantee our safety. It’s our responsibility to look after ourselves, to be smart, and I patrol the town and the forest to keep an eye out for any potential threats that my pack needs warning of.

If I wouldn’t even use it on an animal, I couldn’t imagine using it on a human.

I don’t care if it’s something Sasha agreed to. I don’t care if he encouraged it. What I care about is this despicable excuse for a human having these thoughts in the first place and exercising his power over Sasha to make it happen.

He didn’t want his partner to get hard?

I don’t even like people, and even I know that sex is supposed to be mutually beneficial.

My anger is positively simmering beneath the surface of my skin, and when I push my way into the bar, it’s busier than I expect it to be. A quick glance around makes me reasonably confident that Antonio isn’t here—his size would have been a complete giveaway—but some instinct tells me to stay.

I scan the room, taking in the exits and the groupings of people. I assess who looks the drunkest and who could pose the biggest threat to an outsider.

I’m not used to the outsider being me.

I avoid notice as I slip across the hardwood floor and find a spot at the bar that keeps my back to the wall and my front to the rest of the room. No one is going to get the better of me here.

I watch, mildly interested in the way people keep coming back to the bar for refills on a liquid that’s wearing down their safety. The way they’re willingly putting themselves into a vulnerable state. Giving up control for the night. It disgusts me that people can be that clueless and naive. Anyone in this room might have dreams about hurting them, and they’d never know. They’d never have a chance either, with the way some of them can barely stay upright.

This is why I hate people.

Fumbling, bumbling idiots who somehow think they deserve life when this is the one they choose to lead. They’re not in service to anyone. They’re not part of operating something bigger than themselves. They’re simply here to indulge and not think like they have the right to do that.

Like you just did?

I snarl at the stray thought.

What happened with Sasha was different. I was proving a point, and I have to hope that it landed with him. He thinks he can defend himself, but he might as well be as intoxicated as the people I’m watching. He has no self-preservation, and I swear if there’s nothing else I teach him before he leaves the End, it will be that.

Even rabbits can’t run forever.

“Can I get you something?” the barman asks, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

“No.”

“You’re sitting at the bar.”

“I have no money.”

He sighs like he’s irritated to be working at all, then slides a glass of water across the bar toward me. “At least pretend like it’s vodka or something.”

He disappears, and I glare at the glass he left behind. How the hell am I supposed to know that he didn’t lace it with something? If I wanted something to drink, I would have asked for it, but there’s no way I’m trusting a disgruntled employee of a run-down bar.

I pretend like I can’t even see the glass as my eyes trail the room again. Someone in here has to know Antonio. Statistically, most probably do, but I need someone who properly knows him, doesn’t just know of him.