Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“With all due respect” —Nickel faces me, careful not to meet my eyes while still standing strong—“this is probably nothing. Sully’s on it. He should be conferencing now with the head of security on the island. If anything’s wrong, he’ll fly out himself.”
My nerves are screaming red alert. “I should be there.” I shouldn’t have left. What sort of alpha am I, leaving my vulnerable mate alone?
“You need to be here, Alpha,” Jake murmurs. He and Vance crowd me, blocking others from seeing my meltdown. Beyond them, I sense Billy watching me.
“If you want to sell this, then Jake is right,” Nickel says. “Think of the pack.”
Right. The pack. I need to focus on why I’m here. A show of strength to prove I’m not moon mad.
The whole shifter world is watching.
Nickel pulls out his phone. “Do you want me to call Sully?” He tries and grimaces. “I have no signal.”
My top wolves hover around me, waiting for me to make a decision. It’s up to me.
I’ve come all this way. This is the plan–show my face at the mating games. I don’t have to stay long.
“Let’s go,” I growl.
Jake and Nickel nod, relaxing.
“Just get through one game,” Vance says. “Smile, shake hands, make conversation.”
“Right.” My voice is so gravely, it may as well be a growl. “Smile.”
“As they say in England, Stiff upper fang, old chap,” Vance says in a horrible accent.
“We do not say that,” Nickel mutters. He catches sight of my face and advises, “Perhaps a little less fang.” I glare at him, and he lowers his eyes. “Nevermind.”
“Let’s go.” I follow the scent of ash down a path that cuts through the trees. We emerge in a field. In the center, a pile of tree trunks shoots up flames taller than me. Members of the other packs congregate there in tight huddles organized by pack.
I lead my pack to a spot near the bonfire, close enough to feel the heat but not be seared by it, and out of the path of the billowing smoke. A group of wolves dressed in black march up from the opposite side of the field to stand across from us, and my wolf snaps into focus.
So does Billy. “Guys,” he mutters, and my sister, Jake, and Vance quiet. “The Adalwulfs are here.”
“Good,” Vance says. He and Jake step in front of Scarlett as if to block her from the Adalwulf pack’s view. “It’ll make things more interesting. Sometimes these games get violent. As long as no one dies.”
“But if someone falls into a chasm or suffocates in a snow cave, it’s just a horrible accident,” Jake murmurs back.
Vance smacks his right fist into the opposite palm. “Exactly.”
“Wait, where’s Aiden?” Nickel narrows his eyes. There’s no sign of Odin’s son among the wolves in black. And of course, Odin isn’t here–he’s snug in his fortress, living out his last days.
So why are wolves from his pack here? Enforcers–the biggest, baddest of their fighters.
My wolf tugs at me. Something’s not right.
One of the Adalwulfs, a big bruiser with a scar slashed across his face leaps to the top of a boulder.
“Change of plans today,” he shouts. A shudder goes through onlookers as they see his harshly scarred face. Wolves don’t scar like that unless the wound is treated with vampire blood. But Odin is known for punishing his troops with that sort of torture. “Our alpha Odin has designed a new game.”
“What game?” A wolf with a French accent calls.
The wind picks up, clearing away the smoke, and carrying a chilling scent to me. A soft, sweet one that doesn’t belong in this frozen landscape.
No. It can’t be. The scent smells exactly like…
“Madison.” A strangled growl bursts from my chest, right when the Adalwulf announcer looks straight at me.
“The challenge is called hunt the human.”
Madi
Icy needles prick my cheeks. I flinch, and an awful clump of freezing wet slush falls against my neck. It’s so cold it burns, and I jerk upright.
Pain pounds through my temples. My mouth tastes like ash. There’s a strange slumberousness in my limbs, but the savage wind slicing through me is waking me the fuck up.
I’m no longer in balmy Greece, with white sands and turquoise blue water as
far as the eye can see. The sky above me is gray and heavy. I’m on a vast frozen plain, lying in the snow.
Someone wrapped a thick, red coat around me and shoved my bare feet into snow boots, but underneath I’m still in the light blue sundress I was wearing on the island. My hands and bare knees are already going numb. I force my frozen fingers to zip up the coat and flip up the hood. I’m whimpering, my jaw cramping from how fast my teeth are chattering.
Where am I? I have to think.
There are tracks around me, the heavy boots of my captors imprinted in the drifts. Far to the left are signs of parallel tracks–like a helicopter landed there. There’s no sign of the helicopter now. There’s no sign of any living soul.