This Dark Wolf (Soul Bitten Shifter #1) - Everly Frost Page 0,21

fast that the wind across the vehicle catches my hair.

Asshole.

He speeds the SUV toward the garage door, waits for it to open, and then drives out of the building without a backward glance.

I’m left standing in the empty parking space. I judge the distance between where I stand and the garage door, taking a second too long to decide whether or not to run for it.

It slides down again and blocks any escape.

The woman—Helen—hurries toward me. She appears to be in her forties. Her hair is dark ebony and pulled into a high, loose topknot. She’s dressed in a soft-looking sweater and tight jeans. Despite wearing barely any makeup, her skin appears flawless.

She’s carrying a blanket which—to my surprise—she wraps around my shoulders, drawing me into her side.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she says, her voice unexpectedly soft and warm. “You’re safe with me. Let’s get you upstairs.”

I cast her a horrified glance, attempting to pull away from her.

Is she delusional?

Nowhere that Tristan Masters could leave me can possibly be safe. In fact, I should probably be grateful that I encountered Tristan Masters and lived to tell the tale. For now, that is.

As if she reads my mind—now that my hair isn’t in the way, I guess the horror on my face is unmissable—she says, “This is a safehouse—a place of refuge. Tristan may control this city, but he doesn’t run this house. I do. You have nothing to fear from me or anyone else who lives here.”

Damn. It’s impossible to doubt the sincerity in her eyes. The blanket is soft and her scent is disarming. I try to sense whether she has power—whether she’s human or something else—but I come up blank. I’m not getting any glow from her at all. She draws me toward the elevator, pressing the button for the twentieth floor once we’re inside it.

I frown, nearly laugh, but it would be a hysterical sound, so I shut my mouth. This house does not have twenty floors.

“Tristan told me what happened to your father,” Helen says, making me stiffen. “I’m so sorry, Tessa. Your dad was a good man.”

I jolt away from her, clutching the blanket around myself, pulling it with me like a safety net. I haven’t fully processed my father’s death yet. Haven’t allowed myself to cry. Refuse to truly believe that he’s gone.

In my mind, he’s running through the forest right now.

I choke back a sob. I’m the one who’s delusional now.

But if I accept for one small second that my father’s gone, I’ll break down. I can’t do that here. Not yet. I need a safe place to scream. If it takes me hours or days to find that place, then that’s how long I’ll wait. I’ll compartmentalize my grief until then to keep it under control, the same way I compartmentalize pain. The same way my wolf is a mindless energy. It exists. But it has no soul, no heart, and no impact on my life until I let it.

“What the hell do you know about my dad?” I ask.

“I know that—” She stops and takes a small breath, pressing her lips together before she sighs. “What I know isn’t important. What’s important right now is that we take care of your wounds and get you some food and water.”

I’m in desperate need of both and if she’s offering, I won’t fight her. “What is this place?” I ask, still on edge.

“We call it ‘Hidden House.’” She smiles. “It’s a safehouse for those in need. It’s not like most homes.”

Before I can ask her for more information, the elevator door slides open to reveal a warmly lit entrance room with a couple of fabric armchairs in it. A corridor leads off to the right.

“Follow me this way, please,” Helen says, waiting for me to exit the elevator before she gestures to the right toward a large room situated off the corridor.

It’s also warmly lit, but it’s dimmer than the entrance room. The window on the opposite side doesn’t have any curtains, so I can see the city lights in the distance, as if we truly did rise twenty floors. The room contains a single medical examination table while the walls are lined with cupboards with opaque doors.

There are only two other objects in the room. One is a wand. The other is a book.

Both float midair in front of the window.

I pull up short. Wait a minute…

“You’re a witch,” I say, peering at Helen’s silhouette, hoping to see a spark or hint of