Page 11 of Broken Wolf Heart
Who is probably selling me out at this very moment to Vincenzo and his generals, detailing every covert thing I did to betray them. Once that truth is out there, I’m as good as dead anyway.
I only hope I can find a way to warn Grey it’s coming. Maybe then he can be ready to face his father rather than get caught up in the crossfire. The last thing I want is for him to get hurt because of me.
The beast inside me stirs as if even the thought of Grey being threatened is enough to unleash her.
Downstairs, someone curses, and my sensitive ears pick it up easily.
I jolt back to the task at hand.
Four minutes left.
I step out of my shoes and pad into the closet. My stomach sinks as I take in Franco’s clothes. Starched white shirts. Expensive silk ties. The scent of his cologne clings to the fabric, sharp and acrid. There’s nothing here for me.
I can’t breathe.
At the back of the closet, I clutch the edge of the armoire, fighting the pressure in my chest, the rising heat under my skin. My fingers dig into the wood, and for a second, I swear I feel my nails sharpen, my bones shift.
No. Not yet.
A knock at the bedroom door startles me, and I poke my head out of the closet just as it opens.
Andy.
Toros’ wife. I met her only once, briefly, at a funeral. Closer to my age than she is her husband’s, she struck me then as far too young and sweet to be a willing love match for the monster she’s married to. But I was very wrong once already, and I’m not willing to let my guard down so easily again.
I cross my arms over my chest, still hovering half-inside the closet. “What do you want?”
She steps inside, a bag slung over her arm, her brown eyes wary but not unfriendly as she sweeps the bedroom.
“They left you with Franco’s clothes?” she asks, her voice laced with something close to disgust.
I swallow hard, nodding.
She sighs and holds up the garment bag. “Good thing I figured they’d be assholes about it.”
She walks over, placing the bag on the bed. When she turns back, her gaze lingers on my face, my still-shaking hands, and her expression softens.
“You don’t have to be scared,” she says, but there’s no mockery in her tone. Just quiet reassurance.
I force out a breath. “Are they planning to talk or to kill me?”
Andy studies me for a long second before shaking her head. “They’re not going to kill you.”
I want to believe her, but I know better.
“They’re loyal to Franco,” I say.
Andy’s lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she nods toward the bag. “Come on. Get dressed.”
With resigned steps, I walk over and pull out the outfit she brought—a simple dress, black and sleeveless, with a skirt that ruffles out loosely. Expensive fabric, elegant but plain. Easy to move in.
“We’re close enough to the same size. And it beats wearing one of your grandfather’s suits.”
I don’t argue as I yank the dress over my head. It fits well enough, hugging my frame without suffocating me. Most importantly, the fabric is smooth and soft and doesn’t make me want to claw it off my body or peel my skin off with it.
When I’m done, I shove my feet back into my shoes and stand before the mirror, studying my reflection. My gaze is hollow, but my face is flushed, and my chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Heat still sings through my veins even if I’m managing to mostly ignore it.
Through the reflection, Andy watches me, arms crossed. “I know pants would be more practical, but I think projecting your feminine power is smart.”
