"Damn right I do."

My mother’s voice, low and lethal, sliced through the steam of the kitchen. Mason Reed might have been the Alpha, but Vanessa Whitmore was the one who kept the pack from cannibalizing itself. "I also know the pup isn’t to blame for the sire's rot. You’d punish the cub for the beast's sins, Eleanor?"

I heard my aunt’s sharp, disgusted sniff. "The wolf doesn't change its coat, Vanessa. Give Grayson Cole another cycle and he’ll be just as broken and blood-drunk as Frank. It's in the marrow."

"And whose fault is that? We’ve watched Frank Cole beat the life out of his kin for years and we turned our noses up because it wasn't 'respectable' to interfere. Who’s the real wolf here? Us, for ignoring the boy, or Savannah for having the guts to try and pull him out of the dirt?"

Mother slammed a rolling pin onto the floured board. Thwack. "If he shows up for the Lunar feast tomorrow, he’s coming inside this house. I'm done looking away. Maybe we can show that pup there’s a world that doesn't involve the end of a belt."

I stood frozen on the bottom step, a wild surge of heat hitting my chest. Revenge and victory. Mama was the wall behind me. She was going to help me haul Grayson out of the darkness. How could we lose?

A floorboard groaned above me. I jumped, my heart hammering.

Aunt Harper stood at the top of the stairs, her arms crossed over her thin chest. She didn't look like the rest of the Reed women. While we were all dark manes and piercing amber eyes, Harper was honey-gold, her eyes like deep, shadowed ink. Mama said she was the ghost of a great-grandmother, a beauty from a line that had nearly faded out.

Gossip whispered that Harper had lost her fated mate to a rogue raid years ago—a tragedy that left her a hollowed-out shell, a sleeping wolf waiting for a call that would never come.

She pressed a finger to her lips and jerked her head toward the end of the hall. Once we were clear of the kitchen's eavesdropping range, she gripped my shoulder. Her hand was cold.

"Savannah, eavesdropping is a dangerous game for a girl with no claws."

"Yes, ma'am." I looked at my boots.

She hooked a finger under my chin, forcing my gaze up. "Tell me the truth. Why this obsession with the Cole boy?"

"I don't know. I just... I hate seeing him like that."

"Pity?"

"No," I snapped, my voice cracking with defiance. "I like him. He’s not his father. He’s got fire in him."

A ghost of a smile touched her mouth. "Good. Helping out of pity is just feeding your own ego. Doing it because you give a damn about the soul behind the skin? That’s different. That’s pack."

"Aunt Eleanor says charity is for the weak."

"Eleanor treats charity like a ledger. She gives to the orphanages to feel superior. But Grayson Cole isn't a project, Savannah. He’s a person. How do you think he’d react if he thought you were looking down on him like some stray?"

I thought of the way his jaw locked and the silver fire in his eyes. He’d bite my throat out. "He’d hate it. I don't pity him, Aunt Harper. I swear."

She nodded slowly. "Then be his friend. But don't you dare look down on him. No wolf wants to be a charity case."

"I won't."

I had another ally. And little did I know, Mason Reed—the iron-fisted Alpha—would end up being the biggest lure for a boy who had never known what a real leader looked like.

The Black Ridge territory had one neutral ground: The High Meadow. Ten acres of manicured grass on a plateau overlooking the valley. It was where the packs met for the Great Moon. It had the basics—stone pits for roasting, a running track for the pups, and a few heavy timber swings under the ancient oaks and sweet gums.

The morning sermon at the Pack Chapel was pure hell. I was a coiled spring. I sat on the hard cedar pew, wedged between Mama and Mason, my leg bouncing. Mama hissed at me twice to be still. Mason kept shoving strips of dried elk jerky at me to keep me quiet. I had so much tucked in my cheek I could barely swallow.

The second the final howl ended, I bolted. I dodged through the crowd like a rabbit through briars, lunging for the changing rooms. I ripped off the stiff ceremonial dress and shoved myself into my frayed denim and a red tunic.

By the time I made it back out, the women had already swarmed the High Meadow. They were shoving heavy trestle tables together, flinging linen cloths over the scarred wood, and marking territory with bowls of stew and roasted meat. The men were huddled in thick circles, the air heavy with the scent of pine-tobacco and the low rumble of pack politics.

I found Mason in a cloud of pipe smoke. I yanked on his hand until his knuckles turned white. What if Grayson showed up and I wasn't there? What if he saw the Reeds and turned tail?

Mason sighed, excused himself from the other Elders, and headed for the truck.

The Lunar feast was a god-level spread. Six tables groaned under the weight of ceramic platters. Whole roasted boars, bowls of berries, heaps of dark bread. The women moved like generals, stripping foil and lids, eyes darting to see whose venison was the most tender, whose ale was the strongest.

The truck hadn't even fully stopped before I was out the door. I sprinted toward Mama. She was laughing with Vanessa Whitmore’s inner circle.

"Are they here?" I hissed, pulling on her sleeve.

She leaned down, her breath warm against my ear. "Edge of the tree line, Savannah. Near the shadows. Don't let him leave."

"I won't."

I scanned the dark fringe of the forest. It took a minute. Grayson’s dark clothes made him a ghost against the oaks. He stood perfectly still, a statue of tension. He was alone.

I took a breath, smoothed my hair, and forced myself to walk—not run—toward him. I could feel his eyes on me long before I reached him. They felt like silver needles against my skin.

"Hi." I stopped five feet back. He straightened, his gaze raking over me like I was a trap he hadn't spotted yet. "I’m glad you made it."

"I'm not staying." His voice was a low, jagged rasp. "I only came to tell you not to wait. Lily... she doesn't like crowds. Too many smells."

I looked at him. Really looked. His shirt was crisp, the grease scrubbed from under his nails. He’d even ironed his jeans. If he wasn't staying, why go through the effort of looking like a Reed?

The realization hit me like a physical weight. He wanted to be here. He just didn't think he was allowed to be.

"Lily's fine," I said, stepping closer, my voice dropping. "There’s enough meat over there to feed a rogue pack for a month. You’re going to walk away from that?"

He shifted his weight, his eyes darting toward the feast. "I don't belong here, Savannah."

"Who says?"

"Everyone." He looked at the scars on his knuckles. "Including me."

I reached out, my fingers just barely brushing the rough fabric of his sleeve. The air between us suddenly felt electric, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and something primal.

"I say you belong," I whispered. "And in this pack, my word actually means something. Now, are you going to stand here in the dark like a stray, or are you going to come eat?"

Grayson’s jaw worked. He looked at the shadows, then back at me. Slowly, he stepped into the light.

"Fine. But if your aunt starts talking, I'm out."

"Deal."

I led him toward the tables, my heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had him. For now, the boy with the broken heart was stepping into the light, and I wasn't letting go.

"You're not leaving, Grayson."

I clamped my fingers around his wrist. If I had to throw my entire weight against him or tackle his legs to keep him from bolting back into the treeline, I would. I had a mission to save this boy, and he was being damn difficult about it.

"I have something for you," I said, my voice cutting through the humid air of the High Meadow.

"What?" He tried to jerk away, but I held on. His skin was scorching, a furnace of heat that hummed against my palm. Solid. Real.

"I brought the scrolls," I said. "From my library."

I saw the hunger in his eyes before he could mask it with that cold, iron stare. He was a Cole; he was used to being treated like a rabid animal, not a guest. "I don't take handouts, Reed."

"It’s not a handout. It’s a trade. Consider it a loan, like the High Priest’s archives. Besides, I’ve already memorized them. They’re just rotting on my shelf."

It was a lie, and I hoped the Moon Mother wasn't listening. I had spent two hours agonizing over which ones to bring before settling on the Chronicles of the Elder Moon—the most sacred history we had. I didn't care if he was a 'scrapper.' I knew he’d understand the weight of the words.

Grayson hesitated, his silver eyes darting toward the pack families gathering around the roasting pits. I could read the tension in his shoulders. He felt like an intruder.

"Vanessa said you have to stay," I pushed, using the velvet-edged diplomacy my mother had perfected. "She’s been prepping the elk for three days. Her pride will be shredded if you don't eat at our table."

"You told her?" His voice dropped, losing its jagged edge for a second.

"Yeah. And she said you’re welcome in the Reed halls whenever you want."

"You lying to me, Peewee?" He looked down at me, his gaze softening just enough to make my heart skip.

"I don't lie. Liars get their tongues cut out in the old stories." I kept my other hand behind my back, fingers tightly crossed. "The Alpha said it was fine, too."

He braced himself like he was heading into a firing squad, then gave a sharp nod.

The second I stepped out of the shadows, dragging Grayson Cole behind me, the Meadow went silent. Every pup stopped wrestling. Every warrior stopped drinking. My reputation was either hitting a new peak or cratering into the dirt, but I didn't give a damn. Grayson’s grip on my hand tightened until it almost bruised, his palm slick with sweat. He was waiting for someone to scream 'traitor.'

I led him straight to my mother.

"See, Mama? He stayed."

"So he did." Vanessa Whitmore smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through a storm. "Grayson, I’m glad you’re here. Our table is the one with the blue cloth. Sit. Eat. That’s an order."

"Yes, ma'am." Grayson looked at her like she was a goddess descended from the peaks.

Behind her, Vanessa Whitmore—the other Vanessa, the Beta’s mate—thinned her lips. She traded a look of pure venom with the Councilman’s wife. I ignored them. They were the 'High Society' of the valley, families who owned the silver mines and the lumber mills.

Hugh Morgan, the Alpha’s nephew, was standing nearby. We’d been forced to play together since we were cubs. He was always baiting me, challenging me to jump off cliffs or wrestle older boys. Most of the scars on my knees were from dares he’d set. He wasn't evil, just a bored wolf.

But Peggy Treece was a different story. The Mayor’s daughter was a spoiled brat with a heart made of sour milk. She was smirking at me now, her hands on her hips. I turned my back on her and pulled Grayson toward our table.

"Where are the scrolls, Mama?"

"In the wicker chest, Savannah."

I dragged him over. "Wait until you see these."

I handed them over one by one. I explained the lore of the First Shifters, the ones who could hold the moon in their hands. Grayson handled the parchment like it was made of thin ice.

"You’ve actually read these?" He looked at the heavy ink, then at me.

"Twice. I have hundreds more. When you’re done, bring them back and I’ll give you the maps of the Northern Wilds."

"Why?" He traced the embossed silver on the leather casing. "Why give them to me?"

"Because stories are meant to be told," I said. "And you look like you need a different story than the one you’re living."

He didn't answer. He just clutched the scrolls to his chest.

The feast began. It was a blur of meat, ale, and loud laughter. Grayson sat at the end of the bench, eating slowly, watching everything. After the meal, the mood shifted. The ale had been flowing, and the sun was setting.

"I need to go," Grayson whispered, the tension returning to his frame.

"Not yet. One more thing."

I led him away from the main fire, toward the old stone storehouse. It was cool inside, smelling of grain and dried herbs.

"Savannah, what are we doing?"

I didn't answer. I just pushed the door shut. The moonlight filtered through the high rafters, casting long stripes across his chest.

"I want to know," I said, my voice trembling. "If you feel it too."

"Feel what?"

"The pull."

Grayson growled, a low, tectonic sound. He slammed his hands against the wall on either side of my head, pinning me. "You have no idea what you're playing with, Reed. I’m a Cole. We’re monsters."

"Then show me," I challenged.

He didn't hesitate. He grabbed my waist, his large hands nearly meeting around my middle, and hoisted me onto a stack of grain sacks. My breath hitched. He was right there, his heat radiating off him in waves.

He kissed me—not a sweet kiss, but a claim. His mouth was hot, tasting of cider and salt. I wrapped my legs around his hips, pulling him closer until there wasn't a breath of air between us.

He ripped my tunic open, the ties snapping. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my thighs, my hair. He dropped his head, his tongue lashing against my throat before he moved lower. He took my nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak.

"Grayson!" I screamed, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Shhh," he rasped.

He worked my leggings down, his fingers finding my center. I was soaking, my body betraying me the second he touched me. He slid a finger inside, then two, his thumb grinding against my clit with a rhythm that made my vision blur.

"Please," I begged.

He stripped his trousers, his cock springing free—heavy, dark, and pulsing with a life of its own. He positioned himself at my entrance, the broad head of him stretching me open.

"Look at me, Savannah," he commanded.

I opened my eyes. His were silver, the wolf swirling just beneath the surface.

He lunged forward, burying himself deep in one go. I cried out, my head hitting the grain sacks. He was so big, so thick. I felt my internal walls stretching, molding to his shape. He stayed still for a heartbeat, his face contorted in a mask of beautiful agony.

"You're so fucking tight," he groaned.

He started to move. It was messy, primal. Our bodies slid together, the salt of our sweat mixing as he pounded into me. Each thrust hit my womb, a blunt-force pleasure that made my toes curl. I wrapped my arms around his neck, biting his shoulder to keep from screaming again.

He shifted my legs, throwing them over his shoulders so he could go deeper. The angle was perfect. He was hitting a spot inside me that made my world tilt. I was coming, the waves starting at my toes and crashing upward.

"Grayson, now! Now!"

He let out a guttural roar, his body tensing as he gave three final, violent thrusts. I felt the hot explosion of his seed filling me, a searing warmth that seemed to reach my very soul. My own walls clamped around him, milking him dry as I shattered into a thousand pieces.

He collapsed on top of me, his full weight pressing me into the sacks. He was heavy—a solid, grounded weight that made the world feel real again. We stayed like that, limbs tangled, skin stinging from the friction, breathing in the scent of sex and dust.

The hangover of the pleasure left my limbs shaking. I reached up, stroking his hair.

"Don't leave," I whispered.

He pulled back, his eyes clearing. He looked at the ruined scrolls on the floor, then back at me. "I have to. But I’m taking these with me."

He stood up, adjusting his clothes. He looked like the boy from the salvage yard again, but the fire in his eyes was different.

"Thank you for the stories, Peewee."

He slipped out the door before I could find my voice.

I walked back to the feast an hour later, my skin still glowing, my heart a heavy stone in my chest. I found the table, but something was wrong.

Aunt Eleanor was standing there, holding a shredded piece of parchment. Her face was a mask of fury.

"Where is it, Savannah?"

"Where is what?"

"The Chronicles! The sacred scrolls are missing from the chest!"

The music stopped. The Alpha stood up.

"Savannah," Mason’s voice was a low warning. "Did you give the scrolls to that Cole boy?"

I looked at the crowd. I looked at the gate where Grayson had disappeared.

"I loaned them to him," I said, my voice steady.

A collective gasp went through the pack.

"You gave our history to a scrapper?" Trent Maddox stepped forward, his eyes gleaming. "He’s probably halfway to the border by now, ready to sell them to the rogues."

"He wouldn't!"

"He’s a Cole!" Trent shouted. "They steal, they break, they destroy. And you just gave him the keys to our ancestors' secrets."

Mason stepped toward me, his shadow falling over my face. "Find him. Now. If those scrolls aren't back by sunrise, the boy hangs."

I felt the blood drain from my face. I had tried to save him, but I might have just signed his death warrant.

"A celebration is one thing, but your pack isn't going to let a Cole lounge around the Reed estate."

"I told you already," I said, leaning back against the truck. "Mama said you're welcome anytime. She doesn't say things she doesn't mean."

Grayson snorted, his eyes tracking a hawk circling the valley. "She was just being civil because of the moon."

"She’s always civil, but she isn't a liar."

He didn't buy it. Not until the meat was off the fire and the jars of moonshine were uncapped. It was Mason who finally cracked that iron shell of his.

Our pack feasts follow a blood-deep order. The Alpha offers the kill to the spirits, then the frenzy starts. The pups eat first, grabbing ribs and bread with greasy fingers. Once they’re settled, the warriors and hunters line up. The women go last, tasting every dish to ensure the seasoning is right and the gossip is fresh.

When the pups were called, Grayson trailed me like he was walking into an ambush. We were an island of two in a sea of Reeds. The other kids gave us a wide berth, their instincts telling them to stay clear of the scrapper. Grayson wouldn't touch the platters, so I did it for him. I piled his plate high until the ceramic groaned. Smoked venison, heaps of wild tubers, charred corn, and thick slices of honeyed bread.

I left him staring at the food like it was a trap and ran to the creek to snag two cold ales from the stone basin. By the time I got back, Mason had claimed the seat across from him. He wasn't talking pack politics. He was talking steel. One thing about Mason Reed—he treated every male like a warrior, no matter the age.

"You have a knack for the scout rigs?" Mason asked as I set the ale down.

"Yes, Alpha." Grayson’s voice was steady, but his knuckles were tight. "Steel makes sense. It doesn't lie. Every gear has a slot. If it’s not in place, the machine dies."

Mason gave a slow, appreciative nod. "The problem is finding the fracture before the whole thing snaps. I’ve been messing with that old iron-clad transport for three winters. Still haven't heard it roar."

"What’s the sound when you turn the ignition?" Grayson asked, leaning in.

Just like that, the world around them vanished. They spent the rest of the afternoon dissecting combustion and torque. Grayson cleaned his plate without even noticing, one hand anchored protectively on the scrolls I’d given him while he and the Alpha debated mechanical failures. Not even Eleanor’s sharp glares slowed them down.

I stayed right there. I skipped the ritual wrestling and the spear-throwing games. I just wanted to watch him. I’d never seen him this alive. He was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.

His black hair caught the sun, flashing like obsidian. His silver eyes were bright, moving fast as he followed Mason’s hand gestures. And when he laughed—a real, raw sound—dimples cut into his cheeks, making him look less like a stray and more like a prince of the scrap heaps. I saw Mama and the aunts watching him from the shade, their expressions unreadable, trading those silent looks women use when they see something coming before it hits.

That was the day the crush took root. I was eight. I didn't know a damn thing about heat or mating cycles, but watching him made me feel like I’d finally found my own pack.

My mission shifted. It wasn't just about saving him anymore; it was about keeping him close. My head was spinning with ways to lure him back, but Mason solved it for me. By the time the fires were dying down, Grayson had agreed to help the Alpha with the transport whenever he could slip away from his father’s territory.

The Academy was set to start the Friday after the feast. Only a few days of freedom left. On Wednesday, Lily Brooks got a pass from the old widow who watched her to spend the day at our farm. We were entering the fourth cycle of training, and we spent the morning tearing apart everything from the new combat instructors to the boys in our class.

I didn't mention Grayson once. He was my secret. My find. I wasn't sharing him with anyone, not even my best friend.

Lily reminded me of a wild fox. She had a shock of red hair, a tangled mess of copper curls that no comb could survive. She was a live wire—always moving, always talking. I was the quiet one, the one who’d rather disappear into a book than lead a charge. It made us a perfect match.

We were in the hayloft, messing with a new litter of barn kittens. They were three weeks old, stumbling on shaky legs. Their mother, a half-feral tabby, watched us from the rafters with glowing eyes.

"Hugh likes you," Lily said suddenly.

"Gross. No, he doesn't." I let a black kitten needle its claws into my shirt.

"That’s why he’s always trying to trip you or steal your lunch."

"He’s just an idiot. That’s just Hugh."

"Well, I think he’s sharp. For an Alpha’s nephew."

"You think every boy with a pulse is sharp."

Movement caught my eye. I looked toward the barn doors. Grayson was there. His gaze hit mine, a small, quick smile tugging at his lips before he vanished toward the workshop. Over the last few days, he’d developed a sixth sense for when Mason was opening the hood of the transport. They’d huddle over the engine like healers over a dying king, muttering about valves and spark. Usually, I was the one standing by, acting as the medic.

"Wrench." Snap.

"Pliers." Snap.

But today, I had Lily. They’d have to survive without me.

"What is he doing here?" Lily’s eyes narrowed as she watched the door.

"Helping the Alpha with the rig."

She dragged a piece of straw across the floor, watching a kitten pounce. "Peggy Treece is telling the whole school you’re obsessed with him because you brought him to the feast. She calls him 'Garbage Grayson'."

I felt the growl before I heard it. "He isn't garbage. He’s cleaner than Peggy. She smells like sour milk and desperation."

"I know." Lily wrinkled her nose. "I had to sit next to her in history. So, why did you actually bring him?"

I looked at the workshop where Grayson was lost in the steel. I didn't have the words for it then—the way his eyes looked when he talked about fixing things, or the way the mark on his back made me want to burn the world down.

"Because he’s the only interesting thing in this valley," I said.

The workshop door creaked open. Grayson walked out, his hands covered in black oil, his face smeared with grease. He looked up at the loft, his eyes finding mine instantly.

"Savannah!" Mason’s voice boomed from the shed. "Get down here. I need someone with small hands to reach this fuel line."

I looked at Lily. She just shrugged. I scrambled down the ladder, my heart doing that annoying thumping thing again.

"You’re a mess," I said as I reached Grayson.

"And you're late for duty," he countered, a spark in his eyes.

I followed him into the dim heat of the workshop. The transport sat there, a hunk of dead iron. Mason was cursing under his breath.

"Get in there, Savannah. Reach under the manifold and tell me if the line is kinked."

I slid onto the oily floor, my back against the cold metal. It was cramped and smelled of gas. I reached up, my fingers searching for the rubber hose.

"I got it," I grunted. "It’s pinched."

"Hold it right there," Grayson said.

He slid in next to me. The space was tiny. His shoulder was pressed hard against mine, his heat radiating through my thin shirt. I could smell the soap he used to scrub off the salvage yard scent, mixed with the raw, metallic tang of the shop.

"Move your hand a half-inch left," he whispered.

His hand covered mine, guiding my fingers. His skin was rough, calloused, and so hot it felt like it was branding me. My breath hitched. We stayed like that for a heartbeat too long—two kids under a broken machine, our pulses thrumming against each other in the dark.

"Got it," he said, his voice a bit huskier.

He pulled back, and the cold air rushed in to fill the gap. I scrambled out from under the rig, my face burning. Mason was grinning.

"That’s it! She’s breathing!"

The engine turned over, a coughing, sputtering roar that filled the shed with blue smoke and the song of victory. Mason was cheering, slapping Grayson on the back. Grayson was beaming, the most honest expression I’d ever seen on him.

But as the smoke cleared, I saw a figure standing in the doorway.

It was Frank Cole. Grayson’s father.

He looked like a corpse brought back to life by spite. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes rags, and the scent of cheap whiskey rolled off him in waves. He didn't look at the engine. He didn't look at Mason. He looked at Grayson.

"Get in the truck, boy," Frank rasped.

The light died in Grayson’s eyes. He stood up, the joy vanishing as if it had never existed.

"I was just helping the Alpha, Dad."

"I don't care if you were helping the Moon Mother herself. I told you we don't mix with Reeds. Now move, before I move you."

Mason stepped forward, his eyes glowing amber. "He was doing me a favor, Frank. Leave the lad be."

"He’s my blood, Reed. Not yours. Don't forget it."

Grayson didn't look at me as he walked toward the rusted truck idling in the driveway. He didn't look at the transport they’d just fixed. He just got in and stared straight ahead.

As they drove away, I saw something hit the dirt.

I ran out and picked it up. It was one of the scrolls I’d given him. It was crushed, the leather casing cracked where Frank had clearly stepped on it.

"Savannah," Mason said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "Stay away from that house. It’s a tomb."

I didn't answer. I wiped the dirt off the scroll and held it to my chest.

That night, the sky turned a bruised purple, and the first storm of the season broke over the valley. I sat by my window, watching the lightning strike the distant peaks. I thought about Grayson in that 'tomb' of a house.

I waited until the house was silent, then I grabbed my cloak. I didn't care about the rain or the wolves in the woods. I had to know if he was okay.

I made it to the edge of the Cole territory, my boots sinking into the mud. Their house was a shack, the windows dark. But then, a light flickered in the shed.

I crept closer, my heart in my throat. I peered through a crack in the boards.

Grayson was there. He was shirtless, hunched over a workbench. But he wasn't fixing an engine.

He was holding a piece of jagged glass, and he was carving something into his own forearm.

I stifled a scream. He stopped, his head snapping toward the wall.

"Who’s there?" he snarled.

I stepped into the doorway, dripping wet. "Grayson, stop! What are you doing?"

He tried to hide his arm, but it was too late. Blood was dripping onto the floor. I grabbed his wrist, pulling his arm into the light.

It wasn't just a cut. He was carving a symbol. The Reed pack crest.

"Why?" I whispered, tears blurring my vision.

"Because he can beat me until I break," Grayson said, his voice cold and hard as flint. "But he can't beat you out of me. I won't let him."

He pulled me into him then, his bloody arm wrapping around my waist. He kissed me—not the desperate kiss of the bridge, but something deeper. It tasted of rain and copper.

"Go home, Savannah," he whispered against my lips. "Before he wakes up."

I turned to run, but a shadow blocked the door.

Frank Cole was standing there, a heavy iron rod in his hand.

"I knew you'd bring the bitch here," Frank sneered.

He swung the rod.