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Which means my presence here is responsible for who knows how many injured wolves.
Maybe even dead wolves.
Innocent people, whose only sin was wanting to sit up front at the theater.
Bile rises in my throat as I scan the area for another weapon, determined not to let this guy get away. I’ll subdue him until help arrives and then we’ll find out who he is, why he’s here, and what can be done to make sure the North Star pack isn’t targeted again.
If it means sending me back to The Parallel to die…so be it.
But I’m going on my own terms, damn it, not as this thug’s prisoner.
Figuring a liquor bottle served me well enough the first time, I sprint for the bar, aiming myself toward it at an angle to keep the most distance between Sweaty and myself as possible.
He’s already spotted me and is on the move, stumbling forward with his arms held out to his sides—like he’s dizzy and struggling to maintain his balance.
Hopping up onto the counter, I swing my legs over to the other side and slide down, lunging forward to grab the biggest bottle from the selection of alcohol lined up on the counter. The bottle is full of dark liquid—bourbon, I think—and has a menacing looking octopus on the front.
Taking that as a good sign, I turn, lifting it over my head, ready to bring the Mean Octopus pain…but Sweaty is nowhere to be seen.
Pulse hiccupping, my gaze darts back and forth, scanning the rapidly emptying lobby, but there’s no sign of him.
I’m about to sneak forward to check the other side of the counter—he could be crouched behind it, hiding, or passed out on the carpet—when two giant paws pop into view, braced on the counter between the two cash registers. Not long after, the head of a massive tiger rises between them.
I scramble backwards, until my back is against the far side of the snack bar and the liquor bottle drops from my hand to thud onto the carpet by my feet. I won’t be saving myself with bourbon this time.
This thing is easily the biggest big cat I’ve ever seen, with glittering amber eyes and incisors as big as my hand that it bares with a growl that vibrates my ribs.
So that’s why Sweaty didn’t smell like a wolf.
He’s not a wolf.
He’s a massive tiger with paws bigger than my head and he’s going to gobble me up in one gulp like that evil tiger in that book I loved as a kid. It’s already pushing onto its paws, rising higher into the air.
It’ll be over the counter and on top of me any second now.
I have to do something, have to distract it long enough to get back over the counter, shift, and run.
My wolf, ironically, is as dainty and lithe as my human body is curvy and solid, but she’s fast. Probably not fast enough to outrun Sweaty the Sabretooth, but in an open area I’ll at least have a shot.
Here, I’m an appetizer waiting to be plucked from a tray.
Sweaty’s cat muscles coil in prelude to a pounce and I do the only thing I can think of that might throw him off his game for a second or two. Lunging forward, I grab the soda gun dispenser, jam my thumb down on the trigger and lift it up to spray something brown and diet-smelling straight into the tiger’s eyes.
It roars and jerks to the left, sliding off the counter.
As soon as the path is clear, I leap between the cash registers, kicking off my heels as I jump onto the carpet.
Barefoot, I run for the doors as I reach for the bottom of my dress.
I’ll have to get it off before I shift. Unlike Maxim, my wolf isn’t big enough to rip through my clothes, at least not completely. It’s more likely I’ll get trapped in the stretchy fabric and give Sweaty a tasty, gift-wrapped treat to devour.
I tug at the skirt, but I’ve barely managed to get it up to my waist when a very naked—and goddamned magnificent—Maxim appears in the open lobby doors to my left.
Chapter 14
Willow
Gone is the billionaire in a suit.
