Gone with the Wolf - By Kristin Miller Page 0,16

jump on top of her car?

Panic sliced through Emelia like a stinging whip. She slammed the car into drive, lead-footed the gas pedal and cranked the wheel toward Porter Street. She plunged down the lot exit at high speed, ripping off her bumper as the Civic’s front end gnawed on the asphalt. A fist from above slammed through her driver’s side window. She screamed, cowering against the flying shards of glass. But as her hands covered her face, Emelia lost control of the wheel. She veered hard to the right, headed toward a parked car. The biker’s arm snaked through the window and snatched Emelia by the throat. She clutched at his arms and tried to scream again, but the sound escaped as a strangled cry.

Clawing into the biker’s skin, Emelia struggled for air. Her lungs tightened, seizing when nothing came down the chute. Emelia pinched her eyes shut and braced for the collision with the parked car. Everything happened so quickly, it was a mangled blur.

They collided with what felt like a brick wall. Emelia’s chest slammed against the steering wheel, sending off starbursts of searing pain into her ribs and down her legs. Her head spun and her eyes blurred. The biker’s hand was clutched around her throat one second, and the next, his massive body was thrown onto the hood. She could breathe! Hot streams of air filled Emelia’s windpipe, burning on the way to her lungs.

Emelia peeled her eyes open. Was that…Drake?

Relief washed over her, and for a split second, Emelia thought he looked more like a knight in shining armor and less like a heartless, calculating jerk.

Drake stood in the center of the road like a steel wall, drenched from head to foot, rain streaming down his scowling face. He glared at the biker, who’d slid off the hood looking unscathed and pissed-off as hell. Why were they standing there like that? Staring at each other, saying nothing, breathing hard, in the middle of the street?

If the biker hadn’t been standing so close to her driver’s door, Emelia would’ve bolted. Instead, she ducked below the wheel and watched, rubbing her tender ribs.

The biker mashed his fist against his chin and popped his neck, then jerked back his shoulders and stood tall, towering over Drake. Clenching his fists, preparing for a fight, Drake snarled with a smile. His teeth were ginormous, blindingly white, and more jagged than any steak knives Emelia had ever seen.

She had to be seeing things. Drake’s teeth almost looked like…well, they almost looked like canine teeth, protruding from his gums into razor-sharp points. The biker laughed and spit in Drake’s face, as his back hunched awkwardly and his shoulders broadened. He grew.

That couldn’t be right.

Swiping condensation off the glass, Emelia leaned forward to get a better look, just as a gunshot rang out from somewhere on the sidewalk. With a guttural moan, the biker fell back and hit the hood, then slid onto the asphalt, clutching at a strange silver vial sticking out of his neck.

But Drake didn’t have a gun. Emelia peered through the rain battering the windshield, scanned the sidewalk, and spotted someone else—Mr. Bloomfield?—holding a pistol at arm’s length. The burly man holstered the gun in the side of his pants and approached the biker’s side. He and Drake exchanged words, though Emelia’s ears still rang from the shot.

This couldn’t be happening. Emelia was dreaming. She was in her apartment, warm in bed, having a nightmare. That was it. Had to be. Things like this didn’t happen. In movies like The Avengers, maybe, but not in real life. Feeling woozy, Emelia placed a hand on her heart—it raced like a rabbit’s, thumping wildly against her hand. Her chest was tight, her breathing shallow. She was going to hyperventilate if she didn’t calm down, but how could she after what just happened?

Drake was beside her in a flash, kneeling outside the driver’s door. When had she opened it?

“Are you all right?” He put a chilly, wet hand to her forehead. “You feel cold.”

“Of course I’m cold, I’ve been in the rain.”

“Oh, good,” he said, as his shoulders lost their tension. “If you’re well enough to have an attitude, you’re going to be fine.”

Emelia laid her head back on the headrest and tried to calm herself. Blood rushed through her veins; her heart thumped in her ears. That biker dude was probably dead in the middle of the street and Drake was…what? A hero? An accomplice to murder? “What happened to