The guy who was the wolf jerks his chin in my direction and says something to the other people he’s with, one woman and three other men (large ones, too), and I do a three-point-turn to go back the way I came.
I dare to look in the mirror to see what’s happening behind me and they’re all staring.
Through the windshield, I see a huge black wolf. He’s barreling straight for the truck. He stops in the center of the road and the truck squeals as I’m hitting the brakes. He shows his teeth and then barks at me, all his fur seeming as if standing on end.
The wolf bursts into Tyson and, naked, he stalks toward me, pointing his finger. The look on his face is terrifying. He’s looking at me like he plans to rip me limb from limb.
I’m just sitting there, staring, open-mouthed. I clamp my mouth shut as he grips the driver’s side door handle and I hear it ricochet against the car with resistance.
He growls at me. “Remove the lock, Ivy!”
I stare at him, mouth agape.
He sticks his hand inside the already open window and does it himself. I scoot over to the passenger side as he climbs in.
His eyes burn with fiery anger, so I instinctively reach for the handle to get out that side because… scary!
Wait. Why did I just sit there while he got in? I can’t make sense of it. He made a demand and I just… did nothing.
I don’t get a chance to get out of the truck though, because his massive hand clamps down on my wrist and stops me in my tracks.
“Ow,” I whimper. It feels like my bones aren’t far from being crushed in his bruising grip.
His eyes change, just marginally, and he releases my wrist.
God, my heart is thumping so hard. My wrist throbs.
“Th-that wolf, that’s the brown wolf!” I’m jerking my thumb behind me.
“I know.” He shifts the truck into drive, and we speed off.
His chest is rising and falling with his anger. And I’m holding my left wrist in my right hand and staring at his profile, trying not to stare at his nudity, too.
Not a word is spoken and we’re driving extremely fast.
We get to his house. He stops and gets out, leaving the door open and reaching to the ground to fetch the clothes and boots that are there in a pile. Obviously, this is where he shifted. He dresses quickly, not taking his angry eyes off me, looking like he’s alert in case I plan to dive to the driver’s side again. I don’t. I’m perfectly still and watching him with all sorts of strange emotions washing through me. He gets back in the truck, saying nothing, with anger still rolling off him.
I see that the other guy’s clothes and shoes are still there in the driveway. Tyson drives over them.
He then pulls ahead and instead of going the way we just came in, he takes the other direction, driving toward a big weeping willow tree in the middle of the dirt road. He goes to the left of the massive trunk.
Oh. We’re obviously heading to town, in the direction I should’ve gone. Story of my life… always making the wrong decision. In my defense, it didn’t look like this direction was an option.
***
After ten or fifteen minutes of driving in silence (that somehow vibrates with his anger), we’re in civilization. It’s a small town with a quaint folksy painted sign that welcomes us to Drowsy Hollow, and there are restaurants, we’ve passed a small hospital, and have just pulled into a strip plaza. The place is bustling with plenty of Saturday shopper types. I’m feeling all sorts of chastised even though he hasn’t said a word.
He parks, gets out of the truck, and quickly moves around to the passenger side. He opens the door and grabs my hand as I climb out. I’ve got to jog to keep up with him as he stalks into the grocery store and roughly yanks a cart out of the cart corral. He lets go of my hand and waves at the aisles ahead.
We’ve gone down two aisles when finally he huffs, “Ivy Savage?”
I look over my shoulder at him. I’d just been walking slightly ahead, arms folded across my chest, though just loosely because my wrist is killing me.
“Ivy Brennan,” I correct.
His face falls. Why does that make my chest feel funny? I unfold my arms and plant my hands on my hips. I stare.
“Choose the food you like,” he gestures. “And do it fast.”
“Fuck this,” I whisper.
Aggression is rolling off him.
He scowls at me and points… at what, I don’t know. Food?
My eyes scan the area around me. A little old lady ticks by in a motorized scooter with a front basket filled with food. She’s not gonna be much help. I try to make eye contact, but she only gives Tyson a head to toe eye-sweep. She’s old, but the eye sweep is appreciative.