8
Denali
The Pit is on the wasted edge of an industrial area. I park my beat-up car near the edge of a lot filled with trucks and motorcycles. The air is heavy with the smell of animals. One tang slips through—Nash’s scent. I draw in a deep breath and march to the door, striding in leather ankle boots and a black miniskirt that shows off the length of my legs. A black tube top hugs my torso. Kohl around my eyes and thin gold hoops in my ears, my hair in a soft ‘fro, and my natural scent screams what I am: a lioness on the prowl.
I get plenty of pointed looks from a few tatted dudes smoking joints by their bikes. More shifters turn as I enter the dark building. A few wolves lounge by the door, leather cuts marking them as the “Timberland pack.” They’re a motley crew of mohawks and bad ta
