Page 7 of Claimed By The Tracker

Delaney's Civic sat twenty feet away.

My transportation. My escape.

The only thing between me and another sixty miles of distance.

I dug for the keys.

A shadow moved across the pavement.

He was already there.

Of course he was.

The wolf shifter stood between me and the Civic, sun at his back, hands loose at his sides.

Not threatening in posture.

Threatening in every other possible way.

His shoulders were tense. His breathing controlled. The muscles along his jaw locked with restraint.

Under the collar of his shirt, his pulse beat hard and fast.

Too fast for a man standing still.

"Move."

"I can't."

"Try."

Something almost happened to his mouth. Not quite a smile.

It irritated me more than it should have.

"Don't," I said. "Whatever you think you're doing, don't."

"I'm doing my job."

"Your job involves stalking women through diners?"

"It involves finding people who don't want to be found."

Tracker.

My pulse spiked.

Not just a wolf.

A professional.

"How much did he pay you?"

Something shifted in his expression.

"Your father filed a retrieval contract."

The word hit harder than I expected.