Sloane
Bo is a wolf. As f****d up and crazy as that sounds, I can’t be wrong. The clothes he was wearing are tangled around the giant wolf’s body. And there’s no mistaking his father’s dog tag hanging from the chain around its neck.
Even knowing it’s Bo, I crab walk backward on the pavement when it comes near me.
It’s scary as hell—way bigger than a normal wolf, it’s teeth dripping with blood, silver eyes narrowed with fury. It’s fur is silver, too, only bloodstained from the gunshot wounds.
There’s a blur of motion, a crunch and cracking of bones, and then Bo’s crouching over me, his ripped clothes hanging off him.
“f**k, Sloane,” he curses. His eyes still glow silver with rage. He scoops me into his arms and runs for the bike. He sits me on the seat, then opens the saddlebag and pro
