Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I draw in a breath I don’t want to take. “When Jag tried to seduce you, did you feel anything?”
He doesn’t move.
“Did you get hard for him the way you are for me right now?”
The silence is too loud. His body, so eager a second ago, is frozen behind me.
“Don’t lie to me.” I turn slowly, stepping out of his grasp until we’re face to face, inches apart. “Don’t insult me like that.”
“I won’t.” He swallows hard, jaw ticking, eyes flicking away, then back to me. Torn. “I didn’t want… He got in my head. Knew exactly how to… Push. What to say. What to do. I didn’t mean to react. It was instinct. Confusion. Not desire. I don’t want him.”
I stare at him, heart aching. Not because I didn’t expect it.
But because I did.
Because Jag always finds the cracks.
And because Wolf is Wolf. Sexually inexperienced. Possibly raped by a psychopath. He thinks he’s straight, but if he hasn’t unpacked his trauma, how does he know for sure?
Maybe I’m wrong. After Gavin, I can’t trust my gaydar. But Wolf’s sexuality feels deeper, wider, more vivid and complicated than boring old straight.
Where does that leave him and me and Jag?
Jag has single-handedly manipulated and stolen every man who’s shown interest in me. One by one, he slides in and fucks them. Sometimes, he ends them.
Now there’s Wolf. A man I like. One I like far too much.
I know this pattern. I can trace it blindfolded. I’ll be shoved to the side, discarded like trash, and forgotten by tomorrow.
It doesn’t matter how different this feels with Wolf. Jag always wins.
How many times do I have to be replaced before I stop being such a goddamn pushover? When will I learn?
Now.
Not tomorrow.
Not after I’ve picked myself off the floor again.
I want everything Jag Rath touches to stop bleeding. I want the stains he left on me to finally stop spreading. I’m done standing on the sidelines of my own damn life, swallowing it down when I should be screaming.
I want this pattern to end. Now. With Wolf.
So I pull on my big girl pants and draw my line.
“You can’t have it both ways.” My entire body clenches against the hurt. “You can’t chase me and entertain him.”
He stares at me for an aching moment, each breath dragging his chest higher, stretching the fabric tight over the sharp, sculpted map of his body as if every muscle was hewn to test my restraint.
Finally, he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Goodnight.” I turn, open the door, and step inside.
When it closes behind me, I slump against the wood, fists balled at my sides, eyes stinging.
I’ve been here before.
On the edge of something that could’ve been beautiful, but never had a chance.
I don’t know what scares me more.
Knowing he’ll eventually let Jag in.
Or that the weakest parts of me still want to let Jag in, too.
The next morning, I drop Dove at the mechanic shop just after dawn. Carl and Jasper nod at me like we’re all pretending this setup is normal. Like I didn’t spend half the night thinking about her on skates, Jag’s tattoo, the mysterious car, and her painful—albeit well-deserved—rejection.
The streets are empty. Sitka’s always quiet at this hour. The tattoo parlor looms, the door already propped open with a cinder block.
Inside, the lights are on.
And so is Declan.
“Okay, so this wasn’t here on Sunday, right? Like, definitely not here. I was off yesterday, came back this morning, and boom—bam—bam! A new room. Just… There. Like it grew overnight. Like a mushroom. Or an alien pod. I don’t know, man. This reeks of the Anunnaki. No tire tracks. No receipts. No weird guys in reflective vests. And the construction? Pristine. Like too clean. No dust, no noise complaints, not even a rogue drywall screw on the floor. I think it’s an invasion. Did it happen last night? Or 4000 years ago? Are we missing time? What day is it?”
“Morning, Declan.” I brush past him.
He vibrates, tweaking hard off his fifth or tenth cup of coffee. The aroma of burned beans trails him as he follows me, spewing conspiracy theories I no longer hear.
Because standing where my workstation used to be is a room. Framed out. Walled up. Closed off. A godsdamn room.
New sheetrock hangs on new studs, the tang of sawdust and fresh wood cutting through the musty air.
Perplexed, I run my fingers along the edge of the doorframe, the unpainted drywall, the cleanly mudded seams. A room made of high-grade shit that doesn’t match the rest of the shop.
I open the heavy door and step inside, finding everything exactly how I left it last night.
My chair. Worn stool. Workbench of sterilized tools. Inks arranged in gradients only I understand. Light still spills through the window at the perfect angle for morning sessions. Nothing out of place. No tampering.