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“How?”

“Go!” She shoves hard between my shoulder blades.

Low, hungry growls fill the air. The sound flips a switch in my head—adrenaline dumps into my body and I bolt. My Cherokee glows like a lifeline in the distance. Twenty yards. A bit more. I don’t count. Irun.

Behind me, Erica drops her purse with a thud.

“Bring it on, sons of bitches!” she roars.

I glance back—just once. Two wolves. One gray, the other black with a white patch on his chest. The gray lunges at Erica, jaws wide, saliva flying. She lifts her hand—and it’s glowing.

Not metaphorically. Actually glowing.

Light explodes from her palm in a sweeping arc.

The gray wolf flies like it’s been slammed by something unseen, skidding across the asphalt with a bone-rattling crash.

“Don’t look back!” she screams.

But I do. Of course I do.

The black wolf was chasing me—but at the other’s yelp, it whips around and turns on her. It pivots mid-run, muscles rippling beneath thick fur. It charges straight for my friend.

Oh hell no.

I leap into the driver’s seat and shove the key into the ignition. My hands shake, my whole body wired tight. I’m no witch—but I’ve got something just as deadly.

Two tons of Detroit steel.

The engine roars to life. I slam it into gear and floor it. Tires scream. Smoke floods the air behind me. He’s closing in on Erica, lunging from her left.

“Not today,” I snarl.

The bumper hits him with a sickening crunch. His body launches through the air—limbs flailing, a blur of fur and fury.

I slam the brakes and skid to a stop—panting, hair in my face, heart pounding in my throat. The wolf slams into the ground like a sack of concrete, rolls once, then twitches to a stop—just three feet from Erica.

Her eyes—pale, furious, and faintly glowing in the shadows—lock with mine.

“You’re not going home tonight,” she says quietly. “Neither of us is.”

And she’s right. I want to argue. Laugh it off. Pretend this is something a stiff drink and denial could fix. But we both know better.

We survived an ambush—but we still don’t know who sent them or why. Staying here would make us sitting ducks, waiting for the next hit. There’s only one place left that might be safe.

Dawson.

14

RAY

“Shut up,” I growl, jabbing my thumb at my phone to silence the alarm with more force than necessary.

The sound cuts off, and I groan. Six a.m. is its own personal hell. I’ve spent years obsessed with my work, but if there’s one thing I still can’t get used to, it’s being yanked out of sleep at the crack of dawn.

I drag my bare feet across the cool hardwood and blink at the pale wash of light creeping through the blinds. Everything feels heavy—my limbs, my thoughts. Even the silence presses in, thick and buzzing like static. I make a beeline to the bathroom. If coffee doesn’t hit me soon, I’ll start cursing my ancestors.

But something stops me.