Page 19 of Taken By the Pack

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?” I press. “You’re claimed.”

His head snaps toward me, his eyes blazing. For a second, I think he’s going to lash out again, but instead, he exhales sharply. “I’ll put gas in your car.”

“What?”

He turns, grabbing a set of keys from the counter. “There’s a jerrycan in the truck. I’ll fill it up.”

“Rowan—”

“Don’t,” he cuts me off coldly.

The warmth from last night is gone, replaced with something distant and sharp. I stand there, clutching the hem of my dress, unsure of what to say.

“Get your stuff,” he mutters, heading for the door.

I linger for a moment, running a hand over my face. By the time I step outside, he’s already at the back of the truck, pouring gasoline into the jerrycan.

We get in his truck and head toward the stretch of road where I left my car. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, taking in the hard set of his jaw, his tight grip on the steering wheel.

“Who is she?” I ask again, breaking the silence.

His knuckles whiten on the wheel. “Drop it.”

I wish I could. “You owe me an answer.”

He slams the brakes, pulling over to the side of the road. “I don’t owe you shit, Grace.”

I flinch but don’t back down. “Fine, but you’re a coward if you think running from this is the answer.”

His laugh is bitter. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I know enough,” I shoot back.

His gaze flicks to mine, and there’s something raw in his eyes. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You can walk the rest of the way.”

I gape at him. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” He leans over, popping the door open. He passes me the jerrycan.

I stare at him for a second longer before grabbing my bag and stepping out. The door slams shut, and he speeds off without another word.

I watch until the truck disappears over the hill, my chest tight with anger and something I don’t want to name.

Who was she? And why does it matter so damn much?

6

JAKE

The dream is always the same. Every fucking detail is burned into my brain.

Grace’s flower shop smells like her—wild roses and something softer, sweeter. She’s on the counter, her legs wrapped around my shoulders, fingers gripping the edges of the wood so tightly that her knuckles are white.

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