The wind cut sharp across the ridge, carrying the stink of pine sap and distant snow. I sat behind Devon on the four-wheeler, arms locked around his waist because the alternative was flying off the back when he gunned it over the rocks. His coat was open; my cheek pressed to the heat of his spine through the thin shirt. Every time he down-shifted, his abs flexed under my forearms like steel cables. I hated that I noticed.
"Hold tighter," he said without looking back.
"I'm fine."
"You'll be less fine with a broken neck."
I squeezed harder just to shut him up. He smelled like cedar and gunpowder and something darker that made my wolf pace in circles. She always comes one second a day. And I only feel my wolf very briefly.
