Chapter 16 - Wolfson #2
I give the station one last wipe, grab my hoodie, and sling my satchel over my shoulder. No ceremony. No lingering. I’m done bleeding into this room.
“We can resume the leg in two or three weeks.” Or never. I reach for the door.
“Tomorrow. Same time. We’ll start the lower leg. And the day after that. And every day until it’s done.” He doesn’t ask. He decides.
Idiot.
“You have an open wound on your thigh. Not to mention a broken wrist. You need time to heal.”
“You heard me.”
“Yep. Now hear me. If you push it, you’ll blow out the lines.
Ink will migrate. The whole thing will heal like shit, and you’ll be stuck with a smeared jaguar that looks like it lost a bar fight.
” I let that sink in. “I’m good, Rath, but I’m not God.
Let your body catch up before your obsession does. ”
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.
“You want to lecture someone about first aid, find a Boy Scout. I’ll be here tomorrow.” He disappears into the back room, leaving me alone with lingering dread, fascination, and a realization I can’t deny.
Jag Rath isn’t finished with me, not by a long shot, and I’m not mad about it.
Outside, the sky is in full meltdown. Slick sheets pour down the alley, drowning everything.
My hoodie clings to my shoulders, useless against the cold. I let it soak through, needing it to rinse off the last eight hours. The smell of him. The heat of him. The sickness he’s spreading.
As the mechanic shop emerges ahead, Dove’s guards spot me immediately. Before I reach the entrance, they step from their parked SUV, eyes scanning the shadows. Ex-military, both of them. Clean cut. Necks as thick as my thigh.
“Evening, Mr. Strakh.” Jasper approaches, blinking rain from his eyes.
“Anything?”
“Uneventful, sir.”
That tracks. Jag’s been glued to my hip all day like a parasite with a hard-on.
“Did she eat?” I ask.
“No, sir. She hasn’t left the premises.”
“Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
They nod and strike off toward their car.
Warmth bleeds into my skin as I slip into the garage bays, breathing in the scent of gasoline, motor oil, and sweat.
Fluorescent lights glow over the central lift. No music. No shouting. No clanking wrenches. Everyone’s gone.
Except her.
She doesn’t acknowledge me as she rolls past.
On skates.
Old-school quad skates, black leather, red laces. That’s not the only thing that’s different. She wears striped knee-high socks, mini denim shorts that should be illegal, and a brand-new tool belt slung low on her hips like she’s about to throw hands at a 1970s roller derby.
Love the look, but where the hell did it come from? It sure as hell didn’t fit in her backpack.
When I left her on the island this morning, she wore the same clothes she wore yesterday. I planned to fix that tonight and take her shopping. Build her a closet full of armor. Stuff that screams Don’t touch me in five different languages and still makes people stare. Badass shit for a badass girl.
But nope. She beat me to it.
Except…
She hasn’t left the premises.
The only explanation? She built a time machine, robbed a punk rock pin-up, and said, Yeah, this’ll do.
She weaves between car skeletons, skating slowly, effortlessly, one hand dragging along the top of a parked engine.
Blue hair piles atop her head in a messy twist, and a grease-smudged flannel hangs unbuttoned halfway, revealing a thin tank top beneath.
Her hips sway with each lazy glide, and those honey-colored eyes flick toward me for half a heartbeat before sweeping away.
That game again.
I lean against a steel post, arms crossed, letting my breath slow as I watch her move. It’s not what she’s doing that enraptures me. It’s how.
She rolls through oil stains and shadows like a figure skater on ice. Bending over the open hood of a Mustang, she locks those skates in a mechanic’s stance, her balance impeccable.
Breathtaking.
She’s been doing this for a while. Like it’s normal. Like it makes sense.
Maybe it does. When it comes to Dove, strangeness isn’t a glitch. It’s her signature.
“When did you go shopping?” I push off the post and prowl toward her.
“I didn’t.”
“Shoplifting, then.” I fish out my smokes and light one. “No judgment.”
“I’m not a thief.” She plucks the ciggy from my mouth, sets it between her lips, and skates backward.
I stay with her, a wolf stalking a bird. “Where’d you get the gear, Rink Rat?”
“It was delivered.” She rolls to a stop and kicks a large box at her feet. “Waiting right here this morning.”
My pulse detonates.
A quick glance tells me the box contains rockabilly clothes, boots, and cyberpunk accessories. All things I would’ve chosen for her.
Except I didn’t send it.
I can guess who did.
Violent, explosive fire crawls up the back of my neck.
“Who?” Keeping my voice even, I step into her space. “Who sent it?”
She offers a facial shrug.
“Don’t lie to me, brat.” I lean down, growling against her lips. “Who?”
She pulls herself taller. “Jag.”
There it is.
Jag.
That slippery fucking cunt. He knew she needs clothes. Knew she loves skates. Knew exactly how to remind her he’s still orbiting her life.
It was supposed to be me.
I was supposed to take her shopping tonight. Fill her closet. Feed her. Protect her. Give her everything.
A tiny black eye blinks in the rafters. A camera pointed straight at me. I feel him watching through that lens, smug and smirking, getting off on the show. Watching me lose. Watching me boil and burn and do nothing.
My hands don’t shake. My breath doesn’t hitch. But inside, I’m nuclear.
I don’t touch her.
I don’t look at the box again.
I turn and stride out before I torch the whole fucking garage.