Pack or Prey (Wolfblooded book 1)

Chapter 6

My bones ached by the time we reached the Perry Lake Motel. If I had been able to just sink into Frank then maybe I could have saved my back a world of hurt, but snuggling up to Charles Manson was not exactly easy. It was all I could do not to run away screaming once my feet touched the ground.

I needed answers and this time he wasn't getting out of it.

Frank climbed off the bike and ran a hand through his hair, talking with a few of the guys. I loved to run my hands through his thick brown curls. He'd even started growing it out for me when I’d told him how much I loved it—just a small victory he'd allowed me. I mourned him in that moment. Mourned the loss of what used to be and what could have been if he hadn’t turned out to be a raging psycho.

I stopped staring at his hair and took in the bigger picture in front of me. The three of them were just standing there, acting so normal. Just chit-chatting like he wasn't covered in another

man's blood. Like they were just discussing the weather. Move along. Nothing to see here, folks.

Nothing's out of the ordinary. Nothing at all.

He finally moved from the men and made his way over. Frank was all confidence and swagger, from his five o'clock shadow right down to his worn leather boots. In the past, that alone could make me swoon like some idiot, but tonight was different. Tonight, my hands trembled with fear as he walked up to me, grabbing a clean corner of his shirt and pulling it up to wipe the red from his face and lips.

"We need to talk," I managed to chirp past the lump in my throat. He just gave me a sideways grin as he pushed past me.

"No, we don't," he said.

"Frank, you... You killed him," I said. I glanced around and dropped my voice to a low whisper. "You didn't just beat the shit out of some guy at a bar. You crushed his skull in. He's dead."

The grin disappeared. He sucked in his bottom lip as he looked around and shoved the key into the lock, pushing the door open. I barely had time to brace myself before he grabbed my shoulders and shoved me into the room, slamming the door behind him.

"You just don't get it," he said, his words slow and careful. "Yeah. I fuckin' killed that son of a bitch. So what? No one’s gonna miss a piece of shit like him, Harls."

I steadied on my feet and turned around to face him. The whole throwing me around like a ragdoll thing was getting fucking old and fast. I forced my breathing to settle, to calm myself back down as I watched him toss his blood-stained jacket across the bed. The sight of all that blood smeared on the bed I’d been sleeping in made my stomach clench.

"Who the fuck are you that you get to make that decision?" I snapped. I was done. Completely and utterly finished with this shit. "I'm leaving. I am not a part of this. I won't be dragged into whatever hell your life is."

He blinked slowly at me, disbelief painting his features. Moments ticked by and we both just stood there staring at each other in silence. He actually looked surprised that I might leave him.

That I couldn't—and wouldn’t— just put all of this past me and forget about it.

Frank finally walked into the bathroom, and I allowed myself the brief, and possibly foolish, hope that he was thinking things over. Maybe he would even do the right thing and call the cops.

Yeah, even I knew that was pretty damn naive.

"You know, Harls," he said from the bathroom, "you never understood me. We've been together two years now and you... You just don't get it. You don't get what I do for us. For the pack."