Chapter 22 #2
The ride feels too long. My pulse spins harder than the engines. Through the rain-smeared glass, the island rises out of the water, black trees crowding the shore, the stone mansion crouched and waiting.
We dock, and Carl and Jasper flank me to the house with no space to breathe. No chance to slip away. Their boots keep pace with mine as we hurry up the path.
Monty steps out before I veer toward the guest house, his silhouette sharp against the porch light. His expression hardens the second he sees the guards glued to me.
“Where’s Wolf?” His eyes flick to me, quick and assessing, then back to them.
“He returned home on his yacht several hours ago.” Jasper shares a look with Carl.
Monty pivots toward the guest house.
“Sir.” Carl plants a hand in his path. “We have a situation.”
The words stop Monty dead. “The last time you said that…” His tone drops. “Denver’s heart was in our kitchen.”
A chill spiders down my back. Denver’s heart? Given what I’ve pieced together about their dark past, I know it’s not a metaphor. These men don’t speak in metaphors.
I glance between them, catching the subtle exchange—Carl wanting to pull Monty aside, Monty already bracing for bad news. And I know. It’s about Jag and the man on the pier.
I want to hear this, but I doubt I’m invited to the conversation.
“I’m going to check on Wolf.” Without waiting for permission, I break from the tight formation and hurry across the path.
Inside the guest house, the air smells faintly of detergent and damp wood. And the silence? It’s heavier than it should be.
“Wolf?” The stairs creak under my steps. “Where are you?” I find his bedroom door cracked, letting a slice of light into the hall. “Wolf?”
I lift my knuckles to tap and freeze.
Water. The steady rush of a shower.
Relief loosens my shoulders, and I retreat into my room. My skin itches from the shop, stinking of oil and dirt. A shower sounds perfect, a little scalding steam to burn off the day.
In my bathroom, I start the water and peel off my outerwear, shirt, and wet boots. The jeans take a minute, clinging damply to my thighs. My reflection in the mirror looks haunted and restless. Normal.
I turn away and test the water. Still ice cold.
Gritting my teeth, I kick free of the rest of my clothes and try again.
The spray pelts my palm, arctic sharp. No heat. Not at all.
Weird.
I pause, listening. The pipes groan, carrying the sound of rushing water through the wall. Wolf’s shower. Still running. Did he use all the hot water? Burn the tank down to nothing? Except he’s still in there. Taking a cold shower?
My stomach drops, that earlier instinct slithering back to the surface. He didn’t stop to get me after work. He came straight here. Alone.
Something’s wrong.
I shut off the water and bolt through my room, yanking on a clean shirt and shorts. Then I grab my phone and race into Wolf’s room.
“Wolf!” I hammer my fists on his bathroom door. “Open the damn door!”
No answer over the continuous hum of water.
I barge inside, and Oh, my God. I can’t process what I’m seeing.
Oh, no, Wolf. No, no, no.
He’s curled on the shower floor, knees tucked, head down, the icy shower beating into his naked body. His lips are blue, and his frame shakes so violently his bones look ready to snap.
Goosebumps cover his skin.
And scars.
I stop breathing, and my hand flies to my mouth.
His torso is a battlefield of macabre cuts. Some still angry and red. Others pink and shiny. Knife marks everywhere. Crosshatching. Overlapping. Hewed, quartered, and carved in layers.
Too many to count.
And Jesus Christ, another one, deep in the ball of his bicep, left a hole that never healed right. As if whatever went into his arm had been ruthlessly torn out.
“Wolf…” My voice breaks as I lunge forward and twist off the faucet.
Silence crashes as the spray sputters and dies. I snatch a towel from the rack and wrap it around him, my hands trembling and pulse crashing.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you. I—”
“Don’t touch me!” He erupts with a roar ripped from hell.
“Wolf.” I flinch. “It’s me. It’s Dove.”
“Get away from me!” He jerks back, shoulders slamming the tile. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
His arms snap up to shield his face. Hands over his head, elbows tucked in, he folds tighter into himself, making himself smaller, bracing for a blow.
I stagger back, my heart crying.
He isn’t yelling at me. He’s yelling at ghosts, at whoever put those scars there, and I don’t know how to pull him out. My hands hang uselessly in the air as I choke on panic. I don’t know how to help him.
Monty.
He’ll know what to do. If I run, I can reach him in two minutes. Maybe three.
But I can’t leave Wolf alone like this.
I scan the bathroom and spot his pants crumpled in the corner. Scrambling for them, I dig through the pockets until my fingers close on his phone.
My breath rattles as I hold the screen to his face. Mercifully, the phone unlocks, and I’m in.
His contacts… Oh, God, what is this? My heart rate redoubles as I scroll through a very short, very strange list.
Bluebird
Captain Kai
Dr Freud
GI Joe Carl
GI Joe Jasper
Nurse Dorothy
Rich Daddy
Scarecrow
The Bear
The Lion
I go back to Rich Daddy. That has to be Monty.
Stabbing my thumb against the nickname, I press Call.
“Please, answer.” I stare at Wolf shivering on the tile, my throat closing around the helplessness.
“Wolf?” Monty’s stern voice pierces my ear. “Everything okay?”
“It’s Dove. He’s…” I swallow. “He needs you.”