I have never driven that fast in my life, and I've raced actual werewolves.
My heart had gone from a dull, grieving ache to a hammering, adrenaline-soaked drumbeat in the space of a single glance in the mirror, every ounce of the night's earlier heartbreak shoved aside by pure animal instinct. Fight, flee, survive — the hierarchy of priorities rearranged itself instantly, and my hands found the wheel with a grip that ached, some old, practical part of me grateful, absurdly, that I'd at least chosen a car with a decent engine for whatever came next.
My father used to say the backroads around Ashgrove were the only inheritance that actually mattered — not the garage, not the tools, just the maps he kept in his head of every shortcut, every washed-out turn, every stretch of gravel too rough
