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Micah and an attractive dark-haired woman faced off in an unfamiliar bedroom. “What the fuck is this, Micah?” she shouted, shaking a small bottle in her fist. The contents rattled ominously between the couple. “You told me you’d stopped using! You lied to me, to your team!”
“Jacee, please—”
“Please, what? Give you another chance, and another, while I wait for the day one of your brothers comes to tell me you’re dead of an overdose? Or were gutted by the enemy because you were stoned during a fight?”
“No,” he denied, voice tight. “That won’t happen.”
“You need to go.” Looking defeated, she turned her back on him. “Now.”
“Baby, please. Don’t throw me away. I’ll get help. I’ll quit. Anything—”
“Now, Micah.”
She meant it. Micah had no right to stay, no grounds to defend himself. Taking a breath, he said, “I love you. That won’t change, ever. I’m always here if you need me, or change your mind.”
Numbly, he walked past her and out the bedroom door. Kept going, all the way outside to his motorcycle, where he sat and stared at her house for long moments. A tear trailed down his face and he wiped it away with his sleeve. Trying to keep it together.
Failing.
Cranking the bike, Micah sped away from the house. From the loss tearing out his insides. He ran from his ruined life, the destruction of his hopes and dreams. With the Pack, with his mate.
And so he didn’t see the shifter with the huge wings swoop down from the sky, talons extended, intent clear. Nick couldn’t scream. Couldn’t warn Micah of the danger.
The creature hit Micah from the side, hard, knocking him from the speeding motorcycle. Micah went airborne, flying through the air for awful seconds—until he slammed headfirst into a tree. Falling to the ground in a crumpled heap, head at an unnatural angle, he stared into the sky. Struggled to breathe.
And then stopped, brown eyes fixing on a point he could no longer see.
Nick propelled himself from the horrid vision, fighting to regain the here and now. Calla’s and Micah’s concerned voices coaxed him back to reality, and slowly the room came into focus. His lungs were burning and he heaved a great breath, focusing on the worried wolf in front of him.
“Nick? Boss, you with us?”
Can’t interfere with free will. But I can suggest, and that doesn’t mean they’ll listen.
He wanted to tell Micah to sell his bike. Not to get involved with Jacee, the bartender from the Cross-eyed Grizzly. To quit using. Any number of things to avert the terrible future he’d just witnessed. In the end, he went straight to the heart of the matter.
Leaning toward Micah, he said, “Take a serious look at your life and where it’s going, because I just did.”
The man paled, the scarred side of his face standing out in stark relief. “You had a vision? About me?”
“Yeah. And your story doesn’t end well, if you keep on your current path,” he told the man grimly. “Kick your addiction, now—and keep your eyes on the skies.”
“Shit.” Micah swallowed hard. “The skies? I don’t get that part.”
“Me, either. But apparently you’re going to make some nasty enemies in the near future, and you’re going to need to be alert to fight them. With our help, of course. You can always count on your team, Micah. Don’t forget you’re never alone in your struggles, okay?”
Wide-eyed, the man nodded. “I won’t. But I’m not an addict, okay? Mac prescribed this stuff I’m on. I know it’s an experimental drug, but it really helps me cope, you know?”
“Maybe it did at first, but now it’s killing you, kid. We’re going to talk to Mac and see about alternatives.”
“All right,” he agreed, clearly shaken. As he should be.
“I’m going to get dressed, and I’ll meet you and the others in the conference room in a few.”
“Got it.” After hesitating, Micah walked out.
First the disturbing vision about Phoenix and Noah, and now this. Every one of the guys had endured his share of heartache, and it seemed there was more on the horizon.
“Nick?” Calla said softly. “Is Micah going to die?”
