Chapter Eleven
Spencer
I curled up on the couch with my feet tucked under me, trying to make myself smaller. Maybe if I took up less space, Ken would run out of things to yell about.
He paced in front of me, shoes wearing a path into the hardwood. Back and forth, back and forth. The gun swung in his hand like he’d forgotten he was holding it, except I knew he hadn’t. Ken never forgot what he was holding when it gave him power.
“You’re fucking him.” His voice was too calm. That was worse than the yelling. “How long? How long have you been spreading your legs for biker trash?”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t lie to me!” The gun jerked toward my face. “I saw you. Saturday. Walking around town with his hand in your pocket like you’re his property.”
My mouth went dry.
“You’re mine, Spencer. Mine. We’ve been together almost three years. You don’t just get to throw that away for a guy who rides around on a motorcycle like he’s compensating for something.”
He resumed pacing. Four steps left. Turn. Four steps right. The gun bobbed with each stride, barrel pointing at the floor, then the wall, then somewhere near my head.
“I’m going to kill him.” Said it like he was discussing the weather. “Shoot that biker trash right in his smug face. See how tough he is with a bullet in his skull.”
My blood went cold. “Don’t.”
“Don’t?” Ken stopped pacing and looked at me like I’d said something hilarious. “You’re defending him? After everything I’ve done for you?”
Everything he’d done. The broken arm. The bruises. The nights I’d slept in my car because going home meant walking into a fist. That was what he’d done for me.
Ken in his grey Henley with his styled hair and his cologne that cost more than my rent. Polished. Put together. The kind of guy who looked good on paper and knew it.
Then there was Crowbar. Leather and motor oil and a toothpick that never stopped moving. Hands that were scarred from real work, not a gym membership. A man who’d paid for urgent care without asking what it cost and fed me breakfast in bed like it was the easiest thing in the world.
No contest. Not even close.
“You’ll never be half the man he is,” I said.
The pacing stopped, and Ken went still. The gun stopped swinging. Everything in the room crystallized into a single point of focus.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
Ken crossed the room in three strides and got in my face, gun pressed against my forehead. Cold metal bit into my skin. His breath smelled like syrup and rage.
“I should shoot you instead. Save myself the trouble.” His finger moved to the trigger. “But first I’m going to find your boyfriend and put a bullet between his eyes. Make you watch.”
Terror clawed up my throat. Not for me. For Crowbar sitting in his truck, oblivious, thinking I was safe inside working. Ken would walk right up to him and pull the trigger before Crowbar even saw it coming.
I wished he was here. Wished he’d followed me inside instead of staying outside. Wished his arms were around me instead of Ken’s fury pressing me into the couch.
Ken’s free hand shot out and grabbed my bad arm, fingers digging into the exact spot where he’d wrenched it days ago. Pain exploded white-hot from shoulder to fingertips. A scream tore out of me before I could stop it.
Ken grinned.
The expression was worse than the pain. Pure enjoyment stretched across his face, his eyes bright with something that looked almost like pleasure. He squeezed harder, and I cried out again, tears streaming down my face.
“That’s better.” He released my arm and stepped back, still grinning. “You always did sound pretty when you cried.”
My arm throbbed, each pulse sending fresh agony radiating outward. The sling had twisted during the struggle, fabric cutting into my shoulder.
“You’re mine, Spencer. You’ve always been mine. A piece of paper doesn’t change that.” Ken gestured with the gun toward the bed. “Now get up.”
“No.”
“Get. Up.” Each word was punctuated with a jab of the gun barrel.
“I’m not yours.” My voice shook, but I forced the words out anyway. “The restraining order expired, but that doesn’t mean I’m yours. I was never yours. You just convinced me I was.”
Ken’s expression went flat. “Wrong answer.”
Grabbing my good arm, he hauled me off the couch. My feet scrambled for purchase on the hardwood as he dragged me across the room. The bed loomed ahead, and I knew exactly what he planned to do once he got me there.
“No!”
Not again. Never again.
Twisting in his grip, I threw my weight sideways. Ken stumbled but held on. His fingers dug into my bicep hard enough to leave new bruises on top of old ones.
“Let go!” I kicked at his shin. My sneaker connected with bone, and he grunted.
His grip loosened for half a second. That was enough. Ripping my arm free, I shoved both hands against his torso. He stumbled backward and the gun tumbled from his hand, clattering onto the hardwood and skidding toward the bed.
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We both lunged for it.
Ken was bigger, faster, but I was closer. Dropping to my knees, I stretched my good arm for the weapon, fingers brushing cold metal. Ken grabbed my ankle and yanked. My chin hit the floor, and pain bloomed across my jaw.
Kicking backward, my heel connected with something soft. Ken swore, and his grip loosened. Scrambling forward, I got my hand around the gun’s grip and rolled onto my back just as Ken dove toward me.
Bringing my elbow up, I drove it straight into his nose. Cartilage crunched. His nose erupted, hot and copper-scented blood rushing from the wound. Ken jerked back with both hands pressed to his face, a string of curses pouring from his mouth.
The gun was heavy in my hand. Heavier than I expected. My finger found the trigger, and I pointed the barrel at Ken’s face.
“Get out.”
Ken lowered his hands. Blood poured from his nose, dripping onto his shirt and turning the fabric dark.
His eyes locked onto the gun then lifted to my face.
The rage was still there, but now something else lived alongside it.
Calculation. Like he was running numbers, figuring odds, deciding if I’d actually pull the trigger.
“You won’t shoot me.” He took a step forward. “You don’t have it in you.”
“Try me.”
Another step. “Put the gun down, Spencer. You’re only making this worse.”
“I said get out!”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me? Call the cops?” Ken laughed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll tell them you attacked me. That I came here to talk and you went crazy. Look at my face. Look at what you did.”
The gun trembled in my hand. My arm screamed from holding it up, muscles already exhausted from the fight. Ken saw the weakness and smiled through the blood.
“You broke my nose,” he said, his voice muffled and thick.
“Good.” I got to my feet, keeping the gun pointed at the floor. My hands were shaking so badly the barrel was doing a little dance. “Get out.”
“You’re not going to shoot me.”
“Try me.”
“You don’t even know how to use that thing.” He took another step forward. “Give it to me before you hurt yourself.”
“I said get out.” My voice cracked on the last word, but I didn’t lower the gun.
Ken took another step. Then another. Blood dripped from his chin onto his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were locked on mine, and the expression on his face was the same one he’d worn right before he broke my arm the first time.
Calm. Cold. Certain.
He lunged for me. The gun went off. His eyes went wide.
The front door exploded inward. The door frame cracked like a gunshot of its own as the wood splintered.
My arm swung toward the door. The gun was still in my hand, finger on the trigger, adrenaline making everything move too fast and too slow at once.
Crowbar crossed the distance between us before I could blink. His hand closed around my wrist and twisted. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that my fingers opened on reflex. The gun clattered to the floor, and he picked it up, handing it off to Diesel.
Behind me, Ken made a sound. Part gasp, part wheeze.
Then arms wrapped around my waist from behind and yanked me backward. Ken’s good arm locked across my throat, pulling me against him like a shield. The pressure cut off half my air supply, and I clawed at his forearm.
“Back off!” Ken’s voice was muffled, thick with blood. “Back off or I snap his neck!”
Crowbar went still. His eyes locked on mine, storm-cloud blue that had gone flat and empty. The toothpick was gone from his mouth. That small detail felt important somehow, like the absence of it meant something terrible was about to happen.
“Let him go.” Crowbar’s voice came out low and even, but something underneath it made the hair on my arms stand up.
“No.” Ken tightened his grip. Stars burst across my vision, and I gasped for air that wouldn’t come. “You’re going to leave. All of you. Or I swear to god I’ll—”
Crowbar’s body began to change.
At first, I thought my oxygen-starved brain was playing tricks.
But his shoulders broadened, straining against his shirt.
Bones cracked and reformed with sounds like wet branches snapping.
His face elongated, jaw pushing forward, and fur erupted across his skin in a wave of dark grey that rippled outward from his center.
Ken’s arm went slack around my throat. “What the—”
The transformation took maybe three seconds. Where Crowbar had stood, a massive wolf now crouched on my hardwood floor. Easily the size of a small car, with teeth longer than my fingers and eyes that glowed with something that wasn’t entirely animal.
My brain stuttered to a halt. Wolves. Werewolves. Crowbar was a werewolf. My boyfriend was a werewolf and he’d just shifted in my apartment and I was about to pass out because Ken was still choking me and also werewolves were real.
Ken’s grip vanished entirely. His body hit the floor with a heavy thud that shook the floorboards.
Air rushed back into my lungs. Coughing, I stumbled forward and nearly fell before hands caught my shoulders. Preacher.
“Easy,” he said. “You’re all right.”