Page 60

It suits us. We’re not built for leisure or comfort either. There’s no going slow or coddling each other. Whatever we have is fast and reckless. That’s all there can be.

Still, I won’t lie and say I don’t have other motives for picking the bike. At the top of the list is that this gives me an excuse to touch her. That will temporarily satiate my wolf’s growing need to get close to her, to abate the aching behind my ribs.

My wolf bit her and started a process I can’t undo. We need to finish it one way or another.

I never thought I’d find a mate. I never looked, although my father tried shoving she-wolves in front of me constantly to see if one would trigger it. After he died, I stopped caring. Controlling a pack of this size is a full-time job. I have hundreds of wolves—much more than the core families that have settled here—under my leadership. They’re all in my head, consciences I can call up to communicate with when I need it. But they’re there, as heavy as guilt. Demanding that I do right by them.

Hunting witches and demons has been one of my pack’s main purposes, outside of making good, full lives for ourselves. My father raised me to be ruthless, and that’s exactly what I’ve been. Cutting down covens, searching out Seers who can tell me how to break the curse, even questioning a blood witch or two. But none had the power or the knowledge that I need.

“Where are we going?” She’s trying to change the subject, nervously fiddling with her sleeves.

“Have you ridden a bike before?”

She scoffs. “Of course I have.”

She’s lying. She eyes it like it’s going to bite her—and of all the things in front of her, she really only has to worry about my wolf.

I grin. “With a motor?”

Pause. Glower. “No.”

“You’ll like it. It’s like a broom—don’t you witches get off on riding wood like that?”

Her mouth pops open. “Fuck off,” she sputters.

There’s her spirit.

I somehow suppress my laugh and straddle my motorcycle. I pat the seat behind me. “Climb on, nightmare.”

“Don’t call me that.”

I narrow my eyes at her. What the hell does the word nightmare draw up in her head? To cause such a reaction, it must be big. My wolf grumbles in the back of my mind. He’s tired from our exertion this morning, but he wants to know why, too.

Instinct says she’d just shut down if I pried, so I shake loose that curiosity.

“Get on the bike, Astra.”

She contemplates it, then approaches. She swings her leg over, and I point to where she should put her feet. Her knees come up on either side of my thighs. She tenses when I start it up, the engine turning over with a loud purr.

Music to my ears.

I glance over my shoulder. “Hang on.”

“To what?”

I rev it, then put us into gear. We shoot forward, and she grabs the back of my shirt. Her legs squeeze mine. It’s the only thing that keeps her from going flying, and I automatically slow.

I reach back and take one of her hands, moving it around my waist. She adjusts her other one without my help. Her palms press into my abdomen. For a second, I remember how her skin burned when I tried to touch her in the lodge. But then I shake it off. I can heal fast—all wolves can. My sister is fine. Annoyed, sure, but fine. That’s probably why she did nothing to stop Astra from burning all my containers to shit.

Younger sisters are so good at payback.

Astra hugs me tighter when the road narrows. This long part of the drive is winding and descends out of the mountains for a long while. I push the bike faster, leaning forward. My movement drags her with me. She protests, trying to fight it, and I tap her hand.

“You have to lean with me,” I call. “And don’t fight the turns.”

She groans. I feel it more than hear it, because her chest is smashed against mine.

“This is sadistic,” she replies.