Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CARTER
“Ready, kitten?” I say into the helmet’s mic, grateful I’d sprung for the feature. The parking lot is quiet now that the tow truck has gone, only the occasional hum of a car passing on the street.
“To voluntarily get onto that beast?” Her voice crackles through the speaker as she gestures at my bike, its metallic blue surface shimmering like sunlight on the ocean against the dark asphalt.
“If you have a problem riding on top, we can work on that.” I smirk, picturing the blush creeping over her cheekbones.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” she hisses, posture stiffening.
“I know. Just trying to ease the tension.” I rest a hand on her lower back, guiding her toward the bike. “She doesn’t bite.”
But I do.
I roll my eyes at my wolf’s antics, settle onto the seat, and extend a hand.
“I don’t know the first thing about riding motorcycles. There isn’t even a seatbelt. What if I fall off?” She eyes my hand warily.
“I won’t let you fall.”
She climbs on behind me, and my wolf rumbles in contentment.
“Where do I—”
“Feet here. Hold on.” Her hands slide around my waist, repositioning at my instruction. “Here we go.”
The bike rumbles to life, and I ease us onto the main road. As our speed builds, her fists clench against me, heat burning through my thin shirt, a sharp contrast to the wind pelting my skin. Even over the roar of the engine, I hear her heart racing.
“Breathe. I’ve got you, kitten,” I murmur.
“I told you to stop calling me that,” she says, though her tone softens and her grip loosens slightly. “So prepared with two helmets. Do you take women for rides often?”
The bite in her voice warms my chest.
“Jealous?” I tease, picking up speed. Her arms cinch tighter around me.
“No. Just wondering how many heads have been in this helmet—and whether I need to treat myself for fleas when I get home.”
“Wolf shifters don’t catch fleas.” I chuckle.
“Fleas, lice—same difference.” She pokes me in the ribs.
“Getting brave, kitten. Careful, or you’ll let go.”
We want her gripping us, needing us.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t let me fall,” she quips, her arms squeezing in a death grip.
“I won’t. But letting go makes my job harder.”
Amongst other things.
“Just answer the question, wolfie.” She scoffs, sitting stiffly behind me.
Silence settles, heavy as the engine’s hum fills the space where words should be. My hands flex around the handlebars, cool night air brushing my neck as I wrestle with how much to give her.
“Carter?” Her voice cuts through, tentative.
“Do you really want to know?” I press the throttle, stretching the moment.
She hesitates—I can feel it. The way she’s weighing whether pressing me will push me away. Seconds pass. A minute. The road unwinds endlessly ahead. Neither of us bends.
Then she exhales sharply. “You know what? Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
Something in me breaks. “No one.” The words rip free before I can stop them, raw and desperate. My chest tightens, the need to give her more clawing at my throat.
The silence that follows shifts—heavier, charged.
Her head tilts, and I imagine her eyes narrowing. “No one?” she echoes, testing my words.
I swallow, forcing myself to remain calm, letting her hear the truth I’ve never given anyone else. “No one has worn that helmet,” I say, voice low and rough. “And no one has ever ridden my bike. Ever.”
Except you.
The words hang, bare and undeniable, louder than the engine, louder than the rush of wind.
“Oh.” Her reply is soft but heavy, and I feel the weight of a hundred unasked questions between us. If only I could read her mind. If only she could feel my emotions. Why was I the only one she couldn’t read?
We drive the rest of the way in silence until we pull up in front of Flouramor Florist. The shop is a cheerful, quaint brick building tucked between a row of small storefronts, its tall glass windows painted with crisp white letters spelling out the name, framed by curling vines and floral sketches.
Bouquets as big as armfuls block the view inside.
We circle down the alley and into a parking spot.
Sliding off, I hold out a hand to help Rose off the bike.
“So?” I ask, setting my helmet on the seat and raising an eyebrow.
“So what?” she says, pulling hers free. The breeze ruffles her dark auburn hair, and my pulse races at her scent.
Mine.
I clear my throat and smirk, jerking a thumb at my bike.
“Did you die?”
“You’re such an asshole.” She shoves the helmet into my chest and stomps around me, but I catch her the wrist, tugging her back until we’re chest to chest. I lean down, close enough our noses nearly touch.
“What was that?” I whisper, breathing in her intoxicating scent.
“I—” Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. I let go of her wrist and cup her cheek, her heartbeat thrumming against my palm.
She wants us. Look how she melts at our touch. Does she feel the pull of the bond the way we do?
“Rose.” I drag my thumb across her plush lip, her mouth parting under the touch.
What are you waiting for? Kiss her.
Her phone buzzes, and she jumps back, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. She fumbles through her purse, pulls out her phone, and paces the length of the brick wall. A few minutes later, she thanks whoever was on the line and puts the phone away.
“Everything okay?” I ask, noting the smudges under her eyes, the slump of her shoulders.
I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms, to kiss her senseless and ease some of the weight she carries.
But I know her—she thrives on staying busy, on helping others.
As an empath and conduit witch, her magic and heart are wired that way.
Still, she shouldn’t have to do it alone.
“Yeah. Just the band I booked for the Wise Fox Lounge opening canceled.” She rubs her temples and groans. “First the decorations, now this. I want this to go perfectly. I need it to go well.”
What you need is—
“Tsk, tsk. Buckle up, buttercup.” I tip her chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before straightening the collar of my jacket.
“Oh! Your jacket.” She reaches for the zipper, but I cover her hands with mine.
“It looks good on you. Besides, we’ve got a few more stops before I can whisk this princess home—before the clock strikes midnight and my trusty bike turns back into a pumpkin.” I tap her nose and step away.
Rose shakes her head, but her smile carries a little of that lost sparkle. “Last I checked, wolf shifters weren’t fairy godmothers. And I’m not headed to a ball.”
No, but I could play prince charming—and I wouldn’t need to try a shoe on every maiden to find you.
“You’re a brilliant witch and damn fine event planner from what I hear.
Where one door closes, another opens. This might not be a ball, but as long as I’m in town, I’m at your service.
Now, let’s go smell the roses.” I give a mock bow and offer my arm.
She chuckles, takes it, and together we step into the florist.
Two hours later, after slogging through catalogs of flowers, vases, and goddess only knows what else, Rose finally meets me in the lobby. I’d spent the time reaching out to Alexandria’s family, hoping for news. Nothing solid—just a message to her friend confirming she was still in town.
“Ready?” I ask, handing her the helmet.
“Yes. Summerwind is just a few miles down the street.” She fits the helmet on after giving me directions, then climbs behind me without her usual fuss.
We take off. Having her pressed against me feels so damn right, and it’s all I can do not to pull over, drag her into my arms, and show her everything I’ve held back—the things I’ve thought about every night for the past year. Watching from a distance. Waiting.
But we’re done waiting. We won’t let her slip away again—not when we can still feel how she reacts to our touch.
“Turn here,” she says, and I roll into the nightclub’s parking lot. A line already snakes around the building, the setting sun painting the sky in streaks of fire.
Heads turn as I park and Rose swings off the bike, tugging off her helmet and shaking free her hair. In the evening light, she practically glows.
“That’s a long line.” I whistle low, scanning faces, hoping for a glimpse of the wolf pup. It would be too easy is she were standing right there, but I wouldn’t complain.
“We won’t need to wait. I know the owners and almost all the staff.” She nods toward the bouncer checking IDs at the door. “Ready?”
“Well, isn’t that lucky?” I follow her to the front of the line, ignoring the heated glances aimed at my mate.
“Hey, George. Busy night?” The tall, broad male turns, grin splitting wide as he pulls Rose into a hug, then holds her at arm’s length.
The bass thrums through the walls before we even step inside, vibrations settling low in my chest like a second heartbeat. Neon light spills from under the door, pulsing with the rhythm of the music. The faint tang of alcohol and sweat lingers in the air.
“Rosemary Sinclaire. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” George tsks, his sharp eyes sweeping her from head to toe. “Though it looks like you’ve been working yourself to the bone again.”
Rose arches a brow but only smiles.
George shifts his gaze to me, grin turning sly. “And who’s this fine wolf shifter on your arm?”
“This is Carter,” Rose answers easily. “We’re looking for a girl—hoping we might find some luck here.”
George’s smile falters. “Now, Rose. You know I’d do anything to help, but—”
Before he can finish, I pull my phone from my pocket and flash the picture. Rose’s voice sharpens, cutting through the bass. “It’s a missing girl. One of the wolf pups, nearly ready for her transition, has run away. We’ve had word she’s in town. Have you seen her?”