Thrown to the Wolves

6. Scarlett

The trackeron my phone indicates Lyssa’s position at another dive bar called The Drunken Hog on the outskirts of the city. Perfect. Close enough to the bar last night for a new “chance” encounter, but far enough away from both the Syndicate’s and just outside the Sokolov’s usual territory that my presence won’t seem too suspicious.

And if she starts asking questions, I’ll just flutter my eyelashes and make that scared face that got her so hot last night.

I slip into a slinky wrap top that hugs my curves and accentuates my assets, and add the same jeans from last night that I know had her checking out my ass. If I’m going to manipulate her back to my apartment for a second time, I’ll need every advantage. And so, as I apply a bright red lipstick, I steel myself for the act to come.

This has to be flawless.

The Drunken Hog lives up to its name—a dimly lit hole occupied by stained pool tables and the stench of stale beer. Lyssa sits alone at the bar, fingers curled around a tumbler of amber liquid. She’s slumped on one elbow, face propped up on her hand, and she looks bored.

Until she sees me, that is.

I sashay up beside her and she sits up taller on the barstool. “Buy a girl a drink?” I ask with a grin.

For a moment, her eyes travel over me, head to toe and back again, hovering around my cleavage, which is on ample display. Then she scoffs. “You really haven’t learned your lesson, have you?”

I settle onto the barstool next to her and shake back my hair. Up close, her presence is suffocating, power and danger rolling off her in waves. “What are you talking about? This is my local.”

One arched brow quirks upward. “I know where you live. Remember? Uptown.”

I bite my lip, feigning embarrassment. “Okay, look, I know it’s stupid. I was on my way somewhere else, actually, in an Uber, and we were at the lights out there.” I point, but she doesn’t follow my finger, keeping her eyes on me. “I just happened to glance over and see you through the window and...” I pause, try to gauge how she’s taking such a preposterous story. But she’s just waiting for me to finish, her brown eyes cool and steady on mine. “Well, I guess it felt like fate.”

“Fate,” she repeats blankly.

“And I thought maybe you’d let me buy you a drink as a thanks for…well, taking out all those crazy guys last night? I can promise you one thing, I’m never going back to that place again.”

For a long moment, she regards me silently. Then she gives a shrug. “If you insist. Glenfiddich, neat.”

I give a nod at the bartender and order myself one too.

“If you’re expecting this to lead to the same thing as last night—” Lyssa starts warningly, after the bartender brings them over.

“Just a drink between friends,” I say, raising my glass to her. “You helped me out. It’s the least I can do.”

Lyssa finally raises her glass as well, before taking a sip. Those cool eyes are assessing me over the rim of the glass. “So, mysterious woman who hangs around seedy bars at night...what’s your story?”

Here goes nothing. I launch into the well-rehearsed tale I’ve crafted, sprinkling in just enough truth to keep it believable. “Well, like I said, I’m a medical student. Just finished my clinical rotations at the hospital.”

“That’s why you patched me up so good, huh?” The sardonic lilt of her voice raises goosebumps along my arms.

Undeterred, I forge ahead. “I had a...family tragedy a few years back. My older brother was killed in a random mugging gone wrong.” I let my eyes well with genuine tears at this part. “I wanted to go into medicine to see if I could save a few lives.”

It’s a twisted version of my life. Wanting to save lives? That was the old, naive Scarlett.

But Lyssa’s mocking expression softens infinitesimally, and she looks down. “That’s rough about your brother. My condolences.”

“Thank you.” I dab at my lash line.

“They catch the guy who did it?” She’s watching me intently now, sucked into the emotional vortex of my only-slightly-fictional backstory. I can’t resist a slight twist of the knife.

“The police didn’t have any good leads. A random act of senseless violence, they said.” I spit the words out bitterly. “That’s a shitty excuse.”

“Maybe they’re just incompetent,” she suggests, swirling the liquor in her glass. “The cops.”

I shake my head vehemently. “No. No, I’ve seen the darker side of this city in my work at the hospital. How many times do innocent bystanders get caught in the crossfire? There’s evil out there. Real evil.”

“Well, there we agree.” Her sharp gaze pins me like a butterfly to a board. “But you sound pretty bitter about it.”

Tears spill over, hot and accusing, and I wish it was just the act I’m putting on. “Because it’s not fair,” I whisper.

For an endless breath, silence stretches between us. Then Lyssa reaches out and puts her hand on my arm with an unexpectedly gentle touch. “Life isn’t fair. Best to accept that early, sweetheart.”

The endearment sends a shiver through me, even as I bask in my small victory. I’ve wakened something akin to empathy in her, even if I don’t believe she really feels emotions like empathy or sorrow. But this seems close enough.

“You’re probably right,” I concede softly. “But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to just move on, you know?”

Her fingers skim up my arm, and I feel a throbbing pulse start up between my legs, a primal drumbeat of desire.

I need to get it together. I’m playing a role here.

“You know what won’t help?” she says. “Going out to shitty, dangerous bars looking for trouble.”

“Maybe…maybe you could help me out one last time?” I suggest tentatively. “One last dance before I promise to quit coming out to places like this?”

Get someone to do you a favor, and ironically, they feel indebted to you. Because you’ve made them feel useful. Humane.

As if the Wolf could ever be humane.

Lyssa’s pupils dilate at my suggestion, a predatory spark lighting up in her gaze. She downs the remains of her scotch and rises. “Lead the way, Scar.”

My eyebrows go up a little, but I don’t protest the nickname. On the contrary, I think it suits me.

My soul is covered in scars just as much as Lyssa’s body is.

Back in the shoebox apartment, the weight of Lyssa’s presence really settles on me. Every movement, every glance is a reminder of the danger I’ve let in.

But it’s a reminder of last night, too. Of the way she touched me.

The way she kissed me.

My heart thunders against my ribs, so I stall for time by taking out the first aid kit again. “Let me take another look at that arm.”

I expect some pushback, but—wordlessly—Lyssa strips off her shirt, and then her bra. Even half-naked and seated, she exudes that wolfish grace that I think must have prompted the nickname. I do feel like I have a wild predator before me, one that could turn on me at any moment. So, with hands that aren’t quite steady, I unwrap the bandage on her arm to inspect the knife wound.

The gash is ragged, flesh slightly inflamed around re-opened stitches. I frown. “You took off the waterproof bandage.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And did you get into another fight?”

“Nah.” Her lips curve in a taunting smirk.

“Then how did the stitches pull open?”

“I cut them. Had to dig something out.” Terror lances through me as her long fingers close over my wrist. “Any particular reason you thought it was a good idea to sew a tracker into my arm, Scar?”

It feels like time slows, and the layers of subterfuge crumble away.

She knows.

Lyssa saw through my entire ruse. I thought I was laying a trap for her tonight, but I’m the one clamped in the jaws of the Wolf.

My eyes dart left to the medical scissors. I could try to end it all right now. Sink the blade into her throat and wrench them free, hard.

But I’d never get to the scissors in time. I know that. That’s what scared me last night, when I saw—for the first time—how powerful, how tricky, how gifted Lyssa really is as a fighter.

She’s already read my mind. If I reach for a weapon now, I might as well sink it into my own throat.

And Lyssa holds my gaze, unblinking, as she reads the war in my mind.

She keeps hold of my wrist, utterly at ease despite her nudity and despite the fact that she knows I’m the enemy.

And then she smiles, that wicked, deadly smile that she gave last night before dispatching six Sokolovs without breaking a sweat. “Well, sweetheart? Your move.”