Page 3 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

I pushed it back.

His eyes moved over my face, searching, trying to place me. He drew in a sharp breath, hunting for a scent that wasn’t there. Even half-conscious and bleeding, the wolf in him was still looking for a trail.

“I don’t know you,” he snapped. “Never seen you before in my fucking life.”

Ten years and a very good surgeon had taken care of that.

I crouched down to his level and rested the bloody knife across my knee.

He flinched.

“Think harder. I was thirteen. You and your friends came to my house one night. Uninvited. You stayed for hours.”

Something shifted behind his eyes. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said. “Who are you?”

I studied him for a long moment. His heartbeat was elevated and his breathing shallow. He was scared, yes, but he was also stalling, buying time for a way out that would never arrive.

“That’s alright,” I said, standing back up. “You don’t have to remember me now.”

I looked down at him. “But before this is over, you will.”

He dragged himself backward, ruined feet scraping across the concrete. “You’re fucking insane.”

“Men like you made me this way,” I said.

His gaze darted around the room, hunting for an exit, a weapon, anything.

I kept my distance. Even injured, he still outweighed me by a hundred pounds, and men with nothing left were the most dangerous. Especially wolves.

“There is no way out.”

“You have no idea who you’re fucking with.” Panic edged his voice higher. “My pack will come looking. You’re dead the second they find you.”

“Nobody is coming.”

He stared as the weight of it sank in.

Oh, fuck, she feels good. Colt’s growl as he took his turn.

“You took two turns.”

His face twisted. “Two what? Who the fuck are you?”

“I was thirteen the last time you saw me.”

His nostrils flared again. Shifter instincts clawed at a truth his mind refused to accept. I watched the slow, terrible recognition move through him.

“No,” he breathed. “They’re all dead.”

“Not all of us. You missed one.”

Something hardened in his eyes then. The predator pushed through the fear. In his head I was still that sobbing, helpless girl. Still easy prey. With a raw scream he threw himself at me. It wasn’t much—just a desperate surge powered by rage and his upper body.

I stepped aside.

Before he could recover, I drove the knife into his shoulder, twisted hard against bone, and wrenched. A sickening crunch filled the basement. He collapsed, right arm useless.

He lay there gasping. “You stupid fucking bitch. You’ll pay for this.”