THE SNARKY VOICE’S owner roared up at the head of a cavalcade of motorcycles minutes after we’d pulled into the bar’s deserted parking lot. And despite Malachi’s warning glance, I hopped out of the SUV and walked by my cousin’s side as he strode over to join them. After all, enforcer or no, Malachi was only one man. A wolf should always have friends at his back.
We met the oncoming shifters in the middle, bikes rolling to a halt inches away from my companion’s unflinching toes. And as the lead wolf removed his helmet with a flourish, I eyed the newcomer critically. He was around Malachi’s age, nearly as broad across the shoulders as my cousin. Meanwhile, the stranger’s inner wolf was so rampant it nearly leapt out of his pale skin.
Not good, I thought. But my cousin wasn’t daunted by the
