Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
My grizzly chills out as I get absorbed in my work, tracing black lines on Camry’s skin. The hypnotic movements along with the buzzing of my tattoo machine seems to calm my bear.
But it doesn’t do much for me.
I think of my mate, wondering where she is and what she’s doing. I wonder what her favorite food is. If she prefers to read or watch TV. I wonder what side of the bed she likes. I wonder if she’s a night person or an early riser. There’s so much to know and I’m dying to discover every detail.
“You should come out with us,” Camry says as I trace the body of a snake that’s slithering out of the skull’s eye socket. “We’ll pick up so many chicks.”
I grit my teeth as I focus on the ink.
Picking up chicks is the last thing I’m interested in. What girl could ever compare to my fated mate?
What the hell is a hook-up going to do for me except make me even more miserable?
I’m not looking for cheap sex. I’m looking for my best friend. My life partner. My mate.
I need her.
“What do you say?” Camry asks with a grin. “Wanna get laid?”
I huff out a breath and keep my eyes on his skin. “No. And quit fucking moving.”
CHAPTER TWO
Erica
Ihate funerals.
I never know how to act.
The last funeral I went to was for my friend’s aunt. That one was sad. The death was sudden and unexpected so everyone was upset. Everyone knew how to act there. Cry, look down, no smiling or joking around.
But how do you mourn when you’re not totally sure the people you’re mourning didn’t deserve it? That the world just might be a better place without them in it.
I stand under the heavy gray sky, wrapped in my black coat, the uncomfortable silence deafening as we all stare down at the two coffins in the ground. Mace and Knox Rourke. My half-brothers. Same deceased dad, different moms. Different everything, really.
I picture my funeral. People would be dressed up nice. They’d look normal. Sad. Not like this.
Every wolf shifter lowlife in the area has come out for the funeral dressed in their finest jeans and leather vests. Some came to pay their respects. Some to make sure my brothers were really dead. And some to posture and scheme to take their place.
You see, my brothers ran the Warhounds, a vicious pack of bikers full of growling, sneering, violent men. And my brothers were the worst of them.
I don’t know how Mace and Knox died, but they probably deserved it.
They were always up to no good. Always up to something violent.
Something tells me they had it coming.
I take a deep breath as I look at the dozens of chrome motorcycles parked by the entrance of the cemetery. I already saw one fist fight and two bloody noses before the first shovel even hit the ground.
I’ve been feeling uneasy all day. I get a little nauseous as I look around at all of the sketchy men hovering around the caskets like wolves circling a carcass, their eyes cold, arms crossed, stone cold expressions hiding what they really think.
My heart starts beating faster as I realize that my brothers aren’t here anymore to protect me. To keep these violent men at bay.
None of them would even think about getting out of line with me when Knox and Mace were around. But now that they’re gone?
I shiver at the thought.
We were never close. My mother made sure of that. She made sure I stayed far away from them growing up. I think she must have sensed the darkness lurking inside those boys and her motherly instincts kicked in.
She left my father when I was a toddler, moved us across the country to Louisville, raised me in the suburbs with my fellow humans, and left my shifter heritage in the past where it couldn’t do me any harm. I didn’t even find out about shifters until I was a teenager and my dad insisted I come visit.
I was only thirteen, but the second I was reintroduced to my brothers, I knew something was off. They were the kind of men who made the air feel wrong when they walked into a room. The kind that has your warning bells ringing off the hook. The kind you stay away from at all costs.
I never brought friends around when I visited Dad. Never slept easy when my brothers were home.
They never harmed me, but I knew they weren’t good men.
And now they’re dead.
“Do you want to say something?” my aunt Jenny whispers beside me, her voice low and tight. She didn’t like them either, but family is family—or something like that. “It doesn’t look like anyone else will.”
I swallow hard and step forward.
They were my brothers. I owe them a goodbye at least.