Page 69 of Hallowed Bones

He says it without venom, just a simple truth laid bare between us. I glance at him, but he doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t speak again until we hit the lot—the same one he dropped me off at before. I slow, scanning for his truck. Nothing.

“Where—?”

“This way.” His hand catches mine—quick, electric. That strange current sparks again, sharp and hot beneath my skin, and I gasp without meaning to.

He doesn’t mention it, doesn’t look at me.

We weave through rows of cars, some new, some weathered by salt and sea air, rust licking at their underbellies.

“Figured we should take advantage of the weather before fall truly hits,” he says, voice light.

I’m not sure what he means until I see it. Sleek and just as predatory as the man standing next to me, a black-and-red motorcycle, gleaming under the sunlight. My steps falter.

Lyall drops my hand, grabs the helmets hanging from the bars, and offers me the smaller one. “Here. Put this on.”

I take the helmet hesitantly, eyeing the bike. “I’ve never ridden before,” I confess as he swings his leg over the wide, black, leather-covered seat.

His chuckle is another one of those sounds that moves over my ears and slides down my body until I can feel it deep in my core. I squeeze my thighs together.

He can’t smell me … can he?

He tugs his helmet on, tucking away all that tousled golden-brown hair in a single practiced motion. The visor clicks up a beat later, and he crooks a finger at me.

“Trust me.”

Trust—not exactly something I’m good at.

I drag in a breath and shove the helmet over my head, lifting the front so I can still speak. “You don’t ask for anything small, do you? Just the whole damn universe.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement—the only part of his face still visible. He doesn’t reply.

The helmet fits snugly. Not tight. Not loose. Just right. I tug the strap beneath my chin, snapping it into place, then step up to the bike.

“Come on, Rabbit,” Lyall says, patting the seat behind him—the one set a little higher than his.

I hesitate. “What if my weight tips the bike while you’re driving?”

He barks out a laugh, eyes dragging slowly down my body like he’s appraising something decadent. “That won’t be a problem,” he murmurs. “Unless … you’re a scaredy-cat?”

I don’t need to see his mouth to know he’s grinning now.

“You know what happens to cats around wolves, right?”

A growl curls up my throat. I step forward, gripping his shoulders, swinging a leg over the seat to straddle the bike behind him. “Make up your mind,” I grumble. “Rabbit or cat—I can’t be both.”

His hand clamps around my thigh—hot, firm—and yanks me forward. My body slams into his back, chest pressed tight to his spine. Air seizes in my throat. His head turns just enough to catch me in his periphery. Eyes like burning suns. Locked. Lethal.

“Rabbit or cat,” he says low, “both are prey to a wolf, baby.”

The comment is both a threat and a promise, and it makes my insides quiver in a way that I’m not entirely sure is full of fear, desire, or both.

I shake it off and scowl at the back of his neck, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just go.”

He chuckles—dark, pleased. “Hold on,” he murmurs.

Yeah, I think snidely. Not a chance in hell.

Lyall nudges the kickstand up and cranks the engine of the bike. He revs it, and the whole machine jerks forward. I gasp, locking my arms around his middle to keep from falling off with the sudden movement.