Rosalia
Falling into a ravine with a half-dead Alpha clinging to you is not the bonding experience Pinterest would have you believe. Angelo’s arm is locked around my waist, his blood soaking my already-ruined pajamas, as we plummet toward the river below. The platform’s cables snap like overcooked spaghetti, and that creepy chanting from the ravine is getting louder, joined by a laugh that makes my skin crawl. I’m starting to think Chicago’s forests are just one big “nope” convention, and I’m the keynote speaker.
“Hold on!” Angelo shouts, his voice hoarse but steady, like he’s done this before. Spoiler: I haven’t. My wolf’s freaking out, but the antidote’s wearing thin, and shifting mid-fall sounds like a great way to break every bone I own. The journal’s still tucked under my shirt, dig
