Epilogue
Trey
I roar down the road on my bike, slipping around slow eighteen-wheelers and leaning into each curve with the speed only werewolf reflexes can manage. As soon as I catch sight of Fight Club—the door free of yellow police tape—I relax. The trouble with the police and leeches is behind us, thank the fates. The pack is safe, the fight club’s up and running, and Sheridan’s settling in just fine. Everything’s gotten better.
Way better.
I turn into the lot, accelerating over the last few hundred feet of nice, shiny new blacktop. That was the first thing Sheridan fixed, and I gotta admit, the new lot is much nicer than the loose rocks and broken pavement. There’s even a special side parking spot marked ‘private’ for club owners only. Sheridan’s Mercedes is already parked there. I
