NIKOLAI
“Joe Shmoe,” Tyce spat from the driver’s seat. We were back in his car for the fourth—or maybe fifth—time in two days.
“His name is Joe Shmoe?” I asked, raising a brow.
“Joe. Joe nobody. Joe should-be-f*****g-ashes.”
Once again, Tyce was knuckling the steering wheel with his foot hitting the gas far too hard. At least the weather conditions had improved, and the roads were freshly plowed. But the tension inside the car may as well have been a storm in itself.
The barely contained rage was rolling off Tyce in thick, heavy waves. Even as someone that wasn’t part of his pack, I could sense his alpha aura. He was in it to kill it at this point.
I understood. The moment I’d smelled this man’s—if you could even call him a man—scent, I’d wanted to lose control too. My fingers twitch
