Wolf Mate (Wolves of New York #4) by Bella Jacobs

Author:Bella Jacobs [Jacobs, Bella]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B0953ZY85X
Goodreads: 58393330
Publisher: #PrB.rating#4.21
Published: 2021-07-12T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Diana

As expected, Cranky isn’t amenable to helping me ditch my V Card—he turns me down with a hard eye roll and a “no way in hell.”

Unexpectedly, he unties me without further debate and heads back outside.

“Um, thanks?” I rub at my wrists and stare at the open door through which he disappeared, expecting him to stomp back inside any minute. But he doesn’t. I’m alone in the sudden silence for several minutes, and then I hear the crack of his axe hitting wood.

He’s splitting logs.

He’s out there splitting fucking logs while the fate of the world hangs in the balance and his brother is being held prisoner by a pair of sociopaths.

With a huff, I swing my feet off the bed, but instead of charging across the room, my legs buckle, and I end up in a trembling tangle of limbs on the rough wood floor.

I curse and squeeze my eyes shut. I have to eat something, or I won’t have the energy to give Cranky a piece of my mind, let alone save Jacob.

Crawling over to the table, I drag myself to my feet, focusing on pulling in long, deep breaths as the world spins around me. I’m not the kind of girl who faints. I run almost every day. I play field hockey and back in the old days, before Maxim started treating me like a prisoner, I could dance from midnight to sunrise without a break.

The fact that I can barely stay upright as I toddle over to Cranky’s primitive kitchen to poke around in his cupboards should give me serious pause about my fitness to fight.

But it doesn’t. I refuse to give up that easily.

I’m sick of sitting on the sidelines or being locked away in my tower while everyone else calls the shots. And sure, in hindsight, maybe helping Willow escape wasn’t the best idea, but I pulled it off. I liberated a woman from one of the most fiercely defended pieces of property in Manhattan.

I’m smarter and more capable than most of the people in my life give me credit for. And I’m not some spoiled, naïve, useless little virgin.

Jacob’s brother is seriously underestimating my value as an ally.

“So, change his mind,” I mutter as I drag a loaf of what looks like homemade bread and a jar of hippy nut butter off the shelf and locate a knife. I make myself a quick sandwich and eat, moaning in a mixture of pleasure and relief as the sweetness of almonds and the faintly sour taste of the bread explode on my tongue. A beat later, my aching stomach starts a party in my midsection.

I don’t know if this is the best sandwich ever—or if I’m just half-starved—but I swear I can feel it giving me life. And hope.

And ideas…

I demolish my first snack, pour myself a glass of water from a jug on the counter, and make another sandwich—this one with extra almond butter. I pace the room on stronger legs as I chew, putting together my argument.

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