Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“You’re a shifter?” Justice inched in even closer, sniffing all around him, this time their chests touching just enough to make Wick want. His dick was stiff and aching in his tailored slacks, and he did nothing to shield his arousal. His fangs began to descend more, needing to taste, to feed.
“No.” Wick frowned, then really thought of Justice’s question. “Why? Can you see…? I mean can you—?”
“I can feel it. It’s… it’s talking—” Justice swallowed hard and took a few large steps back until his hip hit the conference table. “It’s talking to my wolf. Stop it.”
“How? Why? What’s it say—?”
“If you don’t know, how the hell am I supposed to know?!” Justice yelled, his fists balled tight and pounding at his chest. “My wolf is all over me one minute and now it’s distant and quiet, content to communicate with your animal – that you seem to be denying or claiming no knowledge of – and you’re asking me what it’s saying. I DON’T KNOW!”
Wick put his hands up and tried to pull back to give the frantic man some space. Pulling away seemed like the opposite of what he should do. It was contrary to what he wanted to do. This was very confusing and he needed answers that Justice seemed to have. Wick didn’t know what was going on either, but he was sure they were supposed to figure it out together. Otherwise, why would nature do this to them? Wick wanted to rejoice, wanted to celebrate. That’s how he always thought it should be. “I’m sorry we’re only just meeting. Justice… that’s your name, right? Justice Voltov?”
“Volkov. I’m Siberian,” Justice corrected. “We’re meeting because your kind keeps antagonizing my young wolves.”
Your kind. Wick decided to take a different approach, because clearly small talk wasn’t what Justice wanted. He didn’t know what the man wanted. He didn’t know what more to do or how to fix this. The thought of throwing his hands up and walking away wasn’t sitting well with Wick. Matter of fact, it felt like it would kill him. He had to get through to Justice. “My name is Chadwick Earl-Kyne Bentley.”
“Your name is Chadwick?” Justice asked dryly.
Damn, why did that hurt Wick too? Did Justice not like his name, because he loved his. Justice sounded so noble and trustworthy. Maybe the big wolf didn’t know what Wick’s name meant. “I know what Justice means in America. In the old world Chadwick means, ‘battle warrior’. But if you don’t like it, you can call me Wick. I prefer it. Or you can—”
“I don’t need to call you anything,” Justice snapped at him then grimaced, clutching his chest again like he was in great pain. “All we need to do is come up with a meeting of the minds regarding our kinds and then I… I might need a little time.”
Wick stood there staring at Justice. Aching and torn. Time? He couldn’t move. People believed vampires had no heart and no soul. Then why was his breaking right now? Why was his spirit demolished with only a few words from the exceptional man that was fated just for him? His insides whirled and his chest felt like something was battling against his rib cage. Wick felt weakened. Hungry. His throat burned with a ferocious urge to feel Justice’s blood flowing down his throat and coating him all over. Wick could hear Justice’s life force flowing through his veins. It was loud and beckoning him, pulsing right beneath the damp, tan skin over Justice’s jugular. Staring at that thick throat, Wick unconsciously licked his lips.
“Don’t even fuckin’ think about it. No way!” Justice growled so menacingly that Wick moved back, back until the sting of refusal was too much. Until he was fleeing. His flash speed taking him from the over-crowded police station, through the town and up eight thousand feet into the Lyon’s Peak Mountains within minutes, much faster than anyone could see him. All they knew was a windy blur flew past them. Wick didn’t stop until he was at the top, dejected and out of breath. He wasn’t sure how far he’d run, but he knew it was in the opposite direction of the pack lands and where he was staying. His captain was probably having a small conniption.
Wick didn’t care. He dropped down to the soft earth and dug his fingers into the rich soil. The one person that might understand all this or could help him clarify what was happening to him had just run him off. Hated him. The thought of Wick made Justice sick enough to recoil from him.
Wick laid down and stared up through an opening in the trees, not caring that his black Armani suit was being ruined. Nothing mattered anymore. He was lifeless, soulless. Why would fate bless him with anything? For two minutes, he thought nature had smiled on him. That fate did love him no matter how much he called to the Mother and she never answered. He was a life sucking vampire, nothing like the Mother’s adored shifters. Wick always felt he was more. Destined for greatness. Greater than his father. All Wick’s early years spent running away from boarding school for days at a time, escaping into the quietness of the woods. Answering what he knew now was an imaginary call, fabricated in his own mind. For a hundred years he waited for some kind of connection, an understanding of what stirred inside him. He waited for someone who had the answers to why Wick had such a strong pull to the wild.