Chapter 17 - Dove #2
I accepted clothes from Jag. Denying food from Wolf would only hurt him. So I let it go.
Outside, the fog clings to the streetlamps, and the silence stretches between us again, but this time, it’s not heavy. It’s charged.
We stop in front of a building tucked between a pharmacy and a warehouse, unmarked except for a security camera above the steel door.
“Ready to see what flashiness looks like when it has unlimited money?” He turns to a keypad beside the entrance and taps in a code. “Welcome to my dad’s profligate lifestyle.”
The door unlocks with a satisfying click, and he pushes it open. The overhead lights stutter to life as we step inside a windowless garage.
Endless, polished gray floors gleam like lacquered stone under industrial LEDs. The place smells like wax and machine oil and money. Not the kind of money that pays rent on time. The kind that owns cities. The kind that gets handed down and never runs out.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” I slow my steps as we walk deeper.
Wolf strolls in like this is normal. As if rows of hypercars and luxury beasts aren’t lining the walls like a showroom in Monaco.
Bugatti. Koenigsegg. Ferrari. Rolls. Each one gleams like angels with microfiber wings detailed them. Some are on car lifts, suspended mid-air like sacred artifacts, their guts half-exposed in mechanical ecstasy.
“Leo gets that same look on his face every time he walks in here.” Wolf studies me like he’s cataloging my reaction.
I move toward a black Lamborghini, the Aventador I used to dream about when I was sixteen and pissed off at the world. I used to keep a poster of it on the bedroom wall in one of my foster homes. Right next to the knife I hid in the vent.
This car is real. More than real. It swallows light like a black hole.
A few feet away sits a Jesko, blood red and just as slick. I want to touch them all.
“These aren’t just exotic cars,” I murmur. “They’re gods.”
“Soulless ones.” Wolf ambles past them without reverence.
“You don’t approve?”
“I prefer riding,” he says. “Not posing.”
He turns, gesturing for me to follow. We slip between the giants until we reach the back of the garage, where the air feels a little colder. That’s when I see it.
A motorcycle.
Not a showpiece. Not one of those custom chrome monstrosities meant to sit on velvet.
This thing’s all muscle and grit, matte black with silver accents, built low to the ground, its design stripped down and unforgiving. A beast with two wheels and no leash.
“That’s yours?” I raise my brows.
“Yep.” He holds up his keys. “Want to see what this island looks like at ninety miles per hour?”
I hesitate. Not because I’m scared. But because I’m not sure what this is.
He’s angry. Or was. Still smoldering in that silent, brooding Wolf way. But now he’s offering me a ride.
This feels like trust. Or forgiveness. Or maybe just distraction.
Either way, I nod.
“You’ll need this.” He tosses me a helmet.
“What about you?”
He smirks, swinging his leg over the bike. “I like to feel the wind on my face when I die.”
I snort and shove the helmet on. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“Have you heard the fairy tale about the lion, the bear, and the drag queen?”
I shake my head.
“If you stick around, maybe I’ll tell you the story someday.” He pats the seat behind him.
He said that the night I met him, and my reaction is still the same. I can’t stay. Long-term never works out.
But I’m here now.
I climb on and lock my arms around his waist. He’s warm and solid, and dammit, I love the feel of his hard body against mine.
He leans back enough for me to hear him murmur, “Hold on, Trouble.”
Then we roar out of the garage like we’re escaping something. Or chasing it. Hard to tell with Wolf.
The engine growls beneath us, raw and guttural, as he twists the throttle, and we rocket into the night.
Sitka blurs around us, rows of sleepy storefronts with hand-painted signs and amber windows casting golden pools onto the pavement.
A dog barks from a porch. Wind whistles past my ears as we zip down the main road, fast enough to blur past cameras and the stalker monitoring them.
The scent of cedar and sea brine wraps around me, a balm that isn’t cold for once. It’s alive. The salty tang from the harbor mixes with the musk of pine and damp earth as we speed past the edge of town, streetlights giving way to shadow.
I tighten my grip on Wolf, surrendering to the impulse to feel him against me.
His body is a furnace. Lean muscle, wild heat, and too much restraint. My chest presses to his back, and I feel everything. Every inhale. Every twitch of his shoulders as he leans into the curves. The strength in his core as he controls the bike like it’s an extension of himself.
We’re flying now. Past the last of the houses. Past the tree line. Past logic.
He accelerates as the road opens up. Rural, unlined, and kissed by the moon. No headlights in the distance. No brakes. Just us.
The wind tears at my coat and helmet, and I hold on. My thighs cling to the seat. My hands curl against his stomach. The engine’s vibration rises through me, slow and hot and steady.
It’s obscene, the way I feel. Not just the speed. Not just the risk.
It’s him.
This man. This beautiful, battered man wrapped in heat and secrets.
I rest my helmet between his shoulder blades, trying to inhale the scent I’ve come to crave, the waft of smoke and something primal. Something mine.
A growl rumbles from his chest as I shift against him. I can’t tell if it’s frustration or pleasure.
His hand leaves the throttle for a second to find my thigh and squeeze. A question.
I answer him by sliding my fingers under the hem of his jacket. Over his shirt. Against the pattern of scars that torment my thoughts.
For twenty-four years, he was held captive by a psychopath in the Arctic Circle. He’s only been in civilization for six months.
I’m too scared to ask for the details. Too scared he’ll refuse to tell me.
Too scared he’ll expect my secrets in return.
We ride like that, past the river, past the craggy cliffs where spruce trees bend like old men in the wind. The moon guides us. The world disappears.
And I feel it.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Not the gnawing ache of survival.
But freedom.
Real, gut-deep, full-throttle freedom.
With him.