“Get out of my way.”
She straightened her posture and prepared for the fight, then she sent a whispered challenge in our direction.
All three of us. Without even realizing it.
Her beast looked at mine and immediately, there was a connection. I had been seeing her all these years for a reason.
To my surprise, her beast was strong—maybe even stronger than ours. I didn’t understand how that was possible without her being Transitioned, but as soon as I scented her power, all hell broke loose inside me.
My beast roared and bit its fangs through my soul, sending venom deep into my bloodstream. He was angry, possessive. He’d come to know her over the last eleven years, and he knew my brothers hadn’t. Lanier and Quint didn’t give two fucks about her yesterday.
But I gave a fuck, I vowed to save her years ago. I didn’t shift, didn’t let him out, but instead did everything I could to bring on visions of her. That was how I spent my time—for a fucking decade.
So now? Now, it was time to get my girl. It was time to protect her during the Transition, time to get her on board with this plan and show her that for whatever reason, we were asked to find her, and while my brothers didn’t take it seriously, I did.
She was in danger, but we weren’t the threat against her. There was an evil brewing out there somewhere, and it was Annalise that the Puppet Leader wanted.
There’s a target on her back, and my brothers and I were asked to find and protect her, but no one told us what or who we were protecting her from.
Together, we needed to figure out what this was all about, but first, we had to get her to trust us. Which meant that I had my work cut out for me.
Beast to beast, soul to soul, I’d patch her up and show her that shedding tears wouldn’t be the end of her. It would be the beginning.
I closed the door behind me and almost lost my shit at the state the apartment was in.
Fucking Joey.
Making as much noise as possible, I pounded into the old kitchen and threw my backpack down on the dirty counter before opening the retro 1950s style fridge and throwing beer bottles around so the sound of glass hitting glass rang around the room. Finding a water bottle shoved in the back—behind a fuck ton of beer—I slammed the glass bottles out of the way and reached for it.
I closed the door and turned around, taking in the old kitchen. Peeling mustard yellow wallpaper, a mold stain on the ceiling, bright yellow countertops. It was fucking gross. I fought to stay calm as I popped the cap off the bottle and chugged the water down before throwing the plastic into the blue recycling bin in the corner of the room.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Joey shouted. I knew he’d hear me making noise and bring his slut of the night with him to check on me.
Sure enough, Joey came stomping down the hall in a huff, bringing a trail of fresh smoke from the blunt he held between his fingers.
And he’s smoking my weed. What a fucking day.
Joey was about six foot, standing in the door of our kitchen wearing nothing but low hanging sweats. His dark brown hair was all fucked up and crazy, the whites of his eyes were bloodshot, lessening the impact of his dark brown gaze on me. He was handsome in a dirty sort of way.
Being raised by the hands of poverty left a scar on his soul, hardened his features, numbed his emotions. He became a shell of who he was meant to be, and I knew a little something about that. I could relate.
Turning around, I opened the cabinet above the sink and pushed my way through half empty bottles of liquor before I found my target. Vodka. I sighed and hugged the bottle to my chest.
“Nothing now,” I replied, ignoring the half-dressed slut at his side. I’d get her out of here, then I’d let him have it.
“Your fucking face is busted, Annie,” Joey spat, pointing at my split lip.
And there was my window of opportunity.
“I told you to stop calling me that, Joey,” I bitched. He had his arm draped over the shoulders of the leggy blonde. Boxed dye. Trashy.
His usual.
“Why are you always such a bitch?” Joey rolled his eyes and walked the blonde past me, going for the open cabinet, bumping into my shoulder as he went.
Taking the opportunity, I went for the girl.
I couldn’t hit him because I needed his rent money to keep the place we lived in, even if it was just for a few more months.
Dropping the bottle of vodka onto the counter next to my backpack, I reached forward and threw his arm off her before quickly replacing it by wrapping my hand around the back of her neck. She was taller than me by a few inches, but it didn’t matter.
I pressed my pinkie finger down into the pressure point on her throat, forcing her to submit.
She squealed and tried to kick me off, but I didn’t budge.
“Hmm, why am I such a bitch? Because you bring your whores around and they leave their shit everywhere! Look at this place, Joey! What the fuck?” The place was trashed. Dirty thongs (that weren’t mine), bras (that also weren’t mine), open bags of chips, cigarette butts, empty energy drink cans, broken lamps. A fucking mess.
Dragging the slut to the front door, I threw it open and shoved her body through it. “Don’t even consider coming back,” I said calmly, like it made no difference to me.
Because it didn’t.
That was her one warning. If she wanted to come back, that was fine with me, but then her ass was free game. I warned her.
Turning back to face Joey’s stunned face, I kicked the door shut behind me, not caring that blondie was still standing there, also stunned.
“Clean this place up, Joe. For fuck’s sake.”
I snagged my backpack and my vodka off the counter and walked toward my room just before I heard Joey start laughing. Uproariously laughing.
“Fucking savage,” he muttered as he caught his breath.
I smiled.
He knew I took no shit and we had a deal. He could fuck whoever he wanted—we weren’t together—but I wasn’t going to let his sluts leave the place a mess.
His room? By all means, trash the place. But I liked to cook in that kitchen and watch TV on that couch. I was not going to have some girl’s dirty thong next to me while I was trying to fucking chill.
Shuddering at the thought, I crossed the threshold of my room and closed the door behind me before throwing my backpack on the floor near my closet and the bottle of vodka on my unmade bed.
I glanced around the room and sighed, the familiar sight making my chest ache.
My walls were covered in album posters of my favorite music, no paint could be seen. I made sure, when I officially took over this room, that I would make the space exactly how I wanted it. Music was the one thing that made me feel like I was inexplicably understood.
Twinkling lights were strung up along my ceiling. My small closet to the left of the bed held what little wardrobe I possessed. Walking over to my dresser, I picked up the Bluetooth speaker and pulled my phone out of my back pocket before syncing it and pressing play on the paused song.
“100 Letters” by Halsey blared out of the tiny box. I closed my eyes for a second and let the lyrics wash over me. This song always reminded me of my relationship with Joey.
I met him when I was eighteen and just wanted to get out of my foster home. One drunken night at a bar, and I followed him home.
We were good for a while; he was sweet, and the sex was good, but by the end of the first year, he wanted me to open up. He asked too many questions that I refused to answer.