Page 2 of Claimed By Werewolf
Answers.
I followed him out when he pushed through the door.He didn’t look back and didn’t hurry.It was almost like he knew.
The night air slapped me in the face, cool and damp, and carried the scent of rain-soaked asphalt.He headed for a blacked-out Harley parked under a streetlight, and I told myselfnow or never.
“Werewolf!”I called.My voice was sharper than I expected.
He stopped just as he got to his bike.Slowly, he turned his head just enough for me to see the edge of his profile.
“Who the hell are you?”His voice was low and rough.The kind of sound that belonged to a man who smoked danger for breakfast.
I stepped closer and clutched my bag like it might shield me.“My name’s Demi.And you’re going to tell me what you know about Tyler Cross.”
His gaze slid over me, slow and deliberate, like he was cataloging everything about me.
Then he turned fully, and the streetlight caught the scar running along his jaw.His lips pulled into something that might’ve been a grin if grins could bite.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripped with menace and something else I couldn’t place, “you don’t want to know the kind of shit you’re asking about.”
Maybe not.But I wasn’t going anywhere until I got my answers.
Chapter Two
Werewolf
People said my name like it carried weight.Like it meant something more than just a word stitched onto a leather cut.
Werewolf.
Most of the time, I let them believe the stories because fear was better than respect.Fear got doors opened quicker.Fear kept knives out of my back when I walked into rooms where I didn’t belong.Fear was survival.
But the woman who’d followed me out of the bar tonight?She wasn’t afraid enough.Not of me, and not of this life.
I leaned against my bike, arms crossed, and watched her fight to keep her chin high.She tried not to look rattled, but I saw the tremor in her fingers and the way her bag strap cut into her white-knuckled grip.
“Tyler Cross,” she said again, like the name was supposed to mean something.
It did.
More than she realized.
But I wasn’t about to tell her that.
“Sweetheart, you need to turn around and walk your sweet butt back to wherever you came from.”
Her shoulders squared.“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Christ.She had a mouth on her.The kind that would get her killed in places like this.
I pushed off the bike and closed the distance between us.Not much, just enough to let her feel the difference in size and the weight of me blocking out the flickering streetlight.She had to crane her neck to keep eye contact, and damn if she didn’t.Brave.Stupid.Maybe both.
“Then don’t ask questions you’re not ready for the answers to,” I said, low enough that she’d feel the warning more than hear it.
For a second, silence stretched between us except for the distant hum of the highway.She didn’t flinch.Didn’t look away.
Instead, she said, “Six months ago, my brother was murdered.The cops called it random.I don’t believe that.I know he was with someone tied to your club the night it happened.And every lead and whisper I’ve followed since then comes back to one name.Yours.”
She might as well have pressed a knife to my throat because Tyler Cross was a ghost I’d hoped would stay buried.
