Page 17

We ride through the city and, for the first time all morning, my head clears. I like the feeling of the bike beneath me, the engine vibrating through my body, the smell of metal and petrol.

Traffic splits around me like water. I weave between cars without really holding the handlebars, moving on instinct, letting speed take care of me. At one point, I cut into the opposite lane and drive straight toward an oncoming truck. The driver starts honking in terror while I reluctantly return to my lane.

Even if I crashed, let’s be honest, the truck wouldn’t make it. I would. I would heal, like always. Wolf bones harden with every break. Tear enough muscle, and they grow back meaner. But everyone has a limit to how much they can take. Me? I don’t have limits anymore.

Horizon Park is still half-built when we arrive, a skeleton of luxury apartments rising out of concrete and scaffolding. Workers move across the site in reflective vests, but the wolves assigned to protect and manage the investment are nowhere in sight. I ask the construction manager where they are, and he points toward the temporary office building, bowing his head low.

I see.

We find four of them inside, music blasting some garbage rap from a speaker, white powder spread across a desk. Human coke, probably, because they can’t afford nightrush. Two girls sit on the couch with them in the middle of the day, half-dressed and bored. I look at Piro, but he is useless. Everything is on my shoulders. The wolves glance up like we’re intruders. When they notice Piro, their faces sober slightly, though not enough.

“What’s up, Piro?” one of them says without standing or lowering the music.

That’s not how this works.

I look at Piro again, waiting for him to handle it.

He doesn’t.

Unbelievable.

I pick up the speaker and smash it against the wall. Plastic explodes. Silence drops hard.

They all stand.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of them asks. “What’s your problem?”

“You’re supposed to work here,” I say. “Not snort shit and fuck holes in the office.”

One walks closer, chest pushed out like that’s supposed to mean something. “Piro, who is this guy? Tell him to chill.”

He has tattoos on his face, random ugly shit with no meaning. Probably got them after the first girl ever sucked his dick and convinced him he was a tough guy.

Piro says nothing.

The guy steps closer to me. Too close.

“Dude, I’m from Fifth Pack,” he says. “We have everything under control. So now fuck off.”

The wolf in me rises fast. I feel my eyes change, feel my teeth press against my tongue.

By the time he understands he made a mistake, I already have his face in my hand.

I slam him onto the desk and crush his cheek against the surface. With my free hand, I bend his arm the wrong way until the bone snaps. He screams.

Not enough.

I squeeze his face harder, fingers digging into flesh until his jaw starts cracking under my grip. The scream tears through the office, high and ugly. The girls run out. His friends move like they want to help, but I growl once and they sit back down.

Smart.

The wolf under me tries to move. He can’t.

Not while I’m holding him down.

I think about how easy it would be to reach into his chest and rip out his heart. How simple. How clean.

“I think he understood,” Piro says behind me.