Page 28 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
If Roman is truly building armies not just of shifters but of witches, then this war will be unlike anything the Pact ever prepared us for. I don’t want to believe it, but disbelief is weakness, and weakness is death.
I open the secure vaults, begin calculating the weight of what it will take to move my empire from profit to war. Money is nothing if it is not ready to bleed. The war chest grows line by line, funds redirected, shipments reassigned, weapons ordered under names that will never trace back to me.
The lion paces inside me, unsettled, snarling at the thought of Jennifer again. I force myself to focus on the maps, on Roman’s shadow stretching across Europe, on the cold math of survival.
Still, when I close my eyes, I see her.
And in the dark, those golden eyes watch her too.
18
JENNIFER
Washington feels different after Prague. I keep telling myself it’s just me, that I’m jumpy because I haven’t slept properly in weeks, because every time I close my eyes I dream of fire and claws and eyes that glow gold in the dark. But when I walk the streets, I swear the city’s rhythm has changed. The sound of tires on wet pavement, the chatter of commuters clutching their coffees, the constant drone of traffic. It all feels just a little off, like there’s a beat missing in a song I know too well.
By the time I leave the courthouse that afternoon, briefcase in one hand, coat slung over the other, the feeling hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s stronger. The hairs at the back of my neck stand straight. My gut clenches. Someone’s behind me.
I don’t look back. Looking back is the fastest way to let them know you’ve noticed. Instead, I slip into the flow of people on Constitution Avenue, matching their pace, eyes flicking to every reflective surface I pass. A dark coat, tall frame, mirrored sunglasses even though the sun has disappeared behind clouds. He keeps the same distance no matter how I change my stride.
Amateur mistake.
I tighten my grip on the briefcase and make a left, ducking down toward a quieter street lined with shuttered storefronts and scaffolding. The kind of place office workers avoid when the light starts fading. My footsteps echo sharp on the concrete. His follow, steady, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.
Good.
I slide my free hand into my coat pocket, fingers closing around the small canister of pepper spray I keep there, though I know that won’t be enough. The knife strapped to my thigh presses reassuringly against my skin, hidden beneath the hem of my skirt. I head straight for the construction site at the end of the block, duck under the barrier, and weave between stacks of lumber and half-finished steel beams. The perfect place to turn predator into prey.
I stop near the center, drop the briefcase with a loud thud, and step into the open, shoulders squared. My voice carries sharp in the empty space.
“You’ve followed me for six blocks. Either say what you want, or come and try to take it.”
The man steps out from the shadows, slow, deliberate. He smiles faintly, lips pulling back to show teeth too sharp.
“You’re smarter than they said,” he says in a voice thick with something not quite human. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll bleed like the rest.”
Then his body jerks, twists, bones cracking audibly as his frame contorts. His coat splits, muscles bulging, skin thickening into hide. The sound of tusks splitting through his jaw makes my stomach lurch, but I don’t hesitate.
A boar.
I’ve read enough, seen enough hints in hidden files, to know what I’m looking at. But seeing it in the flesh is something else entirely. He drops onto all fours, the ground shaking under his weight, eyes small and mean and fixed on me.
I move fast.
The pepper spray is useless now, so I drop it and reach for the knife, the blade flashing as I slash toward his face when he charges. He jerks back, tusks catching the edge of the steel, the sound of metal scraping hide making my teeth ache. He bellows, the noise so loud the scaffolding rattles.
I duck under his swing, roll across the concrete, and grab a length of rebar from the ground. It’s heavy, awkward, but it’ll do.
He comes again, tusks lowered like a battering ram, and I sidestep at the last second, slamming the rebar into his flank. It bounces off the thick hide, but it slows him just enough for me to dart behind a stack of lumber. My chest heaves, lungs burning, but my mind is sharp, cataloging every angle, every piece of cover.
He crashes through the stack like it’s paper, splinters flying, and I curse, sprinting toward the scaffolding. I climb, boots slipping on wet metal, hands gripping hard. He charges again, the whole structure shaking as he slams against it, but I’m already at the second level, dragging myself higher.
The knife is still in my hand. I balance on the beam, wait until he rears back for another hit, and then drop. I land hard on his back, drive the blade down into the thick muscle at the base of his neck. He bellows, thrashing, and I cling until he bucks so violently that I’m flung clear across the floor.
I hit the ground hard, pain jolting up my spine, the knife flying from my grip. He turns on me, blood running from the wound, eyes burning with rage. I know I don’t have the strength to finish this, not against something that heals faster than I can cut.
So I don’t try.
I scramble backward until my palm hits a lever near the scaffolding, part of the rig that holds a stack of sheet metal suspended above. Without thinking, I yank it. The chain jerks,and the sheets crash down between us with a deafening clang, sparks flying as steel hits concrete. Dust fills the air, choking, blinding.
