Chapter 3
I yank on the stupid wedding gown, tripping over the ripped hem as I dart out of the tattoo shop. A hateful gust of cold air slaps my face, and I suck in a breath, missing the California sun.
I need to return to the pier.
When I flew into Sitka this afternoon, I walked thirty minutes from the airport to the harbor, hauling my backpack in this dress.
The bag contains everything I own.
Exhaustion forced me to hide it under the pier while I searched for Jag.
I need that bag. I need a place to sleep. And a meal. Beyond that, I’ll figure it out.
I don’t have money. Definitely not enough to travel back to Anaheim. Not that I have anything left there. I hate Gavin almost as much as I hate my brother.
My fingers strangle the rifle’s strap on my shoulder. I didn’t realize I was still holding it until now, but I don’t loosen my grip.
It’s the only thing protecting me. The only thing keeping people away. I don’t trust anyone. Gavin was an exception, a mistake I’ll never make again.
My pulse rattles as I hurry along the vacant streets, seeking the shadows.
Most businesses are closed for the night, the windows and doors draped in darkness.
Except for the occasional bar and liquor store, it’s a ghost town.
Too quiet. The slap of my footfalls could be heard in Canada. Or wherever Jag is lurking.
Up ahead, a man leans against the corner of a building, a cigarette lighting up his features in ember-red pulses.
Luminous eyes study me through a curtain of heavy lashes. Unnerving. Striking. Too unreal.
Black hair curls from beneath his beanie, his face both chiseled and soft, demonic and angelic, intimidating and beautiful on a level that wrings my stomach. He’s so tall and lean, all careless grace and rebellion encased in black leather.
I recognize him instantly.
He followed me to the tattoo shop. Now he’s here.
Still following me.
Jag knew his name. Wolfson. Does that mean he’s a regular customer at the shop? Or an employee? Is he covered in ink under all that leather?
Why do I care?
“Not every day I see a bride running down the street with a rifle.” His lips curve as he exhales smoke. “What’s the verdict? Will there be a honeymoon or a homicide?”
I duck my head and keep walking.
He pushes off the wall, flicking his cigarette into the gutter. His boots silently hit the pavement as he falls into step behind me.
“I get it.” His deep baritone rumbles with amusement. “The gown and gun combo makes you mysterious. Tragic, even.”
I keep my gaze forward. Ignore him. Maybe he’ll go away.
“Not much of a talker, huh?” His voice chases me like a shadow, full of unbothered charm. “Maybe you don’t trust me. That’d be a shame. I’m full of great bad ideas.”
I clutch the rifle harder, not sparing him a glance.
When I reach the harbor, I step off the sidewalk and slide down the embankment, careful not to slip on the rocks.
Crouching under the pier, I grope through the darkness until my fingers brush against the worn canvas of my backpack.
Relief washes over me. No one stole it.
I haul it up, sling it over my shoulder, and turn back toward the street, where Wolfson stands above me.
The moonlight hits him just right, and for a moment, I’m taken aback.
He’s so fucking beautiful but in every way that feels wrong. Like a broken angel with nowhere left to fall.
His black leather jacket molds to his physique, the edges decorated with metal spikes and chains. More black covers his long, muscular legs. A beanie slouches over his shaggy black hair, framing his features in shadows. His sculpted cheekbones reflect the light like cut glass.
Women in California spend hours contouring and injecting their faces to achieve the perfect, angular look he wears so naturally.
Lucky bastard.
Everything about him is both deliberate and careless.
His tattered band tee, half-hidden beneath the leather.
The heavy boots that seem built for running or wrecking things.
The rings stacked on his fingers like stolen trophies.
He radiates a strange, untamed energy that warns of trouble while begging for a closer look.
His vibe is a contradiction. Aloof yet all-consuming. A ghost with a heartbeat. A drifter hardened by life and wearing his ruin like an art form.
“Where to now?” His eyes—too blue, too wolfish—bore into mine. “Back to the airport?”
I push past with no destination other than away from this unsettling man.
“You sat on a plane in that dress?” He falls into step beside me, side-eying my ridiculous appearance. “Wore it all the way from California? That’s commitment, Cinderella.”
Cinderella?
I shoot him a questioning glower.
“There are two types. The one who flees the ball and the one who runs from her wedding. In both versions, she loses her slipper.” He angles down as if trying to see my feet. “We know which Cinderella you are.”
With a huff, I kick at the filthy, shredded skirt and pick up my pace.
I didn’t lose a fucking slipper. But when Gavin confessed his betrayal this morning, I lost my ability to think straight. In a fit of rage, I booked the first flight to Sitka, maxed out my credit card to buy the ticket, and had fifteen minutes to pack a bag and catch the plane.
Maybe I could’ve changed clothes on the way, but fuck me, I savored the thought of confronting Jag in this dress.
Too bad I lost the nerve to paint the white satin in his blood.
But I haven’t given up on my revenge. I’m not leaving this frigid hellhole until Jag pays for what he’s done.
“So you don’t talk to strangers.” Wolfson strolls along at my side. “I respect that.”
“Why are you following me?” I stop walking, cutting him a razored glare.
“You’re the darkest, most vengeful Disney princess I’ve ever met.” An infuriating grin transforms his gorgeous face.
“You meet a lot of Disney princesses?”
“No. I’ve waited my whole life for you.”
I scoff, turn, and keep walking.
“All right, I’ll bite.” He trails behind, his voice all lazy curiosity. “What’s the plan?”
I walk faster, scanning the dark streets, looking for a way to lose him.
“I know you’re good at running. I can tell you’ve been doing it for years.” He lights up another cigarette. “But eventually, Princess Bride, you’ll have to stop.”
Something twists in my chest. I don’t like that he sees me. That he’s reading between the lines of my silence.
“And when you do…” He bends closer, his growl dark and silken. “You’ll need someone. Might as well be me.”
My throat locks up.
No. I don’t need anyone. Not now. Not ever.
“Not in this lifetime, Wolfson.” I yank the rifle’s strap higher on my shoulder and resume walking, refusing to acknowledge how deep his words land.
“My friends call me Wolf.”
“I’m not your friend.” I turn sharply down a side street, my heart hammering.
I need to lose him.
The alleyways are empty and unlit, the buildings looming with places to hide.
At the next corner, I race ahead, zigzag around multiple turns, and duck behind a dumpster, pressing myself into the shadows, listening.
Nothing.
Good. Maybe he’s gone.
After several minutes of silence, I creep forward, my breath shallow.
The alley holds still, the path clear. As I turn to check the other direction, a hand snatches my wrist, yanking me backward.
My body collides with solid muscle, the scent of mint and cruelty filling my nose.
Jag.
“Running back to me already, Little Bird?” His fingers bite into my skin. “That was fast.”
My breath halts. The air around us thins, the world shrinking. Blood pulses in my ears, frantic and rushing.
“Let go.” I wrench away, lifting the rifle between us, the barrel aimed at his chest.
“You won’t shoot me.” He gives me those eyes. The melty, amber-gold bedroom eyes that enthrall everyone.
But not me. Not anymore.
I don’t lower the gun.
“You won’t. You never could.” He slowly extends an arm, reaching for the weapon. “I’m all you have.”
A chill snakes down my spine, and my muscles lock.
He moves too fast. One second, he’s in front of me. The next, he’s knocking the rifle from my grip. The impact numbs my hands as the weapon clatters to the pavement.
I rear back, but he’s faster, his arm banding around my waist, his strength overwhelming. He lifts me off the ground, dragging me backward.
“Let me go!” I thrash and kick, bucking against his chest.
“Never.” His lips brush against my ear, a menacing growl. “You belong to me.”
Panic explodes. I claw at his arms, twisting, struggling, but his grip only tightens.
A sharp whistle cleaves the night air.
He whirls, his clutch faltering for half a second.
I slam my elbow into his ribs, and he grunts, his hold loosening. I drop to the ground and scramble for the rifle.
Just as my fingers close around it, he rips it away and springs to his feet. Panting, I roll onto my back and meet his soulless gaze. He stares back, aiming the gun at my face.
I’m fucked.
He used to love me, I think. When we were kids, when our parents died, he protected me like it was his purpose in life. Then everything changed. He changed.
He became this.
I let my head rest on the pavement and force my muscles to relax. Our eye contact hangs, throbbing with history and pain. So much pain it’s hard to hold his gaze. But if he’s going to kill me, I want him to look into my eyes as he does it.
His finger twitches on the trigger.
My lungs shrivel.
As I wait for my death, a shadow lunges from the darkness. Fast and silent, the silhouette crashes into Jag with a force of pure violence.
They hit the cement with a sickening thud, the impact echoing through the night like a gunshot. In a blur of limbs, they explode into a brutal, unrelenting brawl.
I don’t realize it’s Wolf until I see the glint of his eyes. He moves like a feral animal, his hand locking around Jag’s throat, forcing him to the asphalt as his other hand holds a smoldering cigarette to Jag’s bulging eye.
Stunned, my breath lodges in my throat. I’ve never seen anyone move like that. Not even Jag. Wolf’s control is absolute, his fury ice-cold and calculated.
Jag seethes, his nails buried in Wolf’s forearm, but Wolf doesn’t lift that threatening ember. One twitch and Jag will lose his eyesight.
Gone is Wolf’s playful smirk. In its place gleams something far colder, a face that doesn’t belong in civilization.
“If you hurt her again, I’ll break things that aren’t meant to break.” He bares his teeth, his features devoid of humanity.
He straddles Jag’s chest as Jag widens unblinking eyes. If he blinks, his lashes will surely catch fire.
Jag might be stronger, but holy fuck, Wolf is ruthless. He’s a maniac that Jag doesn’t know how to fight.
The rifle lies beside them, and I grab it, removing the magazine, emptying the chamber, and tossing it out of reach. Since he knows I won’t shoot him, no sense waving it around like a useless threat.
Jag manages to free an arm and reaches for the knife in his boot.
But Wolf is faster. He grabs Jag’s wrist and slams it against the pavement, the force so vicious I hear the bones crack.
Jag grunts, his head jerking back in pain.
“I warned you.” Wolf clucks his tongue, returning the cigarette to Jag’s eye. “You should’ve run when you had the chance.”
For a horrifying moment, I think he intends to kill Jag. The way his fingers flex around Jag’s throat, the smoke curling from that cig with pure, deadly intent, he’s seconds away from finishing this.
I don’t know if I want to stop him.
Jag has taken everything from me. He’s hunted me, bullied me, stolen everyone I cared about, and twisted my life until every choice became a knot he tightened around my throat.
But as I watch Wolf strangle him, a different fear creeps up my spine.
Wolf isn’t doing this for revenge.
He’s doing it because this is who he is.
Jag’s face turns red, but Wolf doesn’t relent, his arm straining, making Jag suffer. When I take a step forward, Wolf finally relaxes his grip just enough for Jag to suck air.
“Say the word, Buttercup.” Wolf lifts heartless eyes to mine. “Mercy or death?”
“Mercy.”
“Remember this, Stepbro. She’s far more forgiving than I am.” Wolf rolls to his feet and shifts closer to me. “Don’t make me regret letting you keep that pretty eyeball.”
Jag slowly pushes himself up, clutching his broken wrist. Murder simmers in his eyes. His lips curl back, and a pained breath hisses past his teeth.
“You think this is over? You just made the biggest mistake of your life, freak.”
Wolf doesn’t react. Not outwardly. But the tension crackles between them, an unspoken war waging in the silence. Two predators staring each other down, locked in a standoff.
“You work for my shop?” Jag scoops up the rifle. “Guess what happens when you try to kill your boss.”
“You’re still breathing.” A twitch bounces in the corner of Wolf’s eye. “I went easy on you.”
“Consider yourself unemployed.” He turns to me with vitriol in his tone. “He isn’t your hero, Dove. He’s just another hungry wolf in the dark. Wolves don’t save. They hunt.”
“Walk away, Jag.” My blood runs cold. “Before I change my mind.”
I only need to say the word, and Wolf will kill him. I have no doubt.
Nodding slowly, Jag takes a measured step backward.
“Enjoy your victory. It won’t last.” He pivots and strolls into the shadows, leaving behind the promise of retribution.
Wolf remains unmoving, watching his retreat. Only when Jag fully disappears does he roll his shoulders and shake off the fight.
“Told you.” He brushes blood off his knuckles and meets my eyes. “You need me.”