CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY NINE

I’ve seen a motorbike only once in my life.

It was a bar in a town I had once hunted down a rogue wolf shifter too.

The machine had been a work of art, all sleek lines, emitting a sound that was like a fierce roar and a purr. I had admired it from afar but things like jeeps and motorbikes are not human technology that shifters ever embraced, partly because as Sarah had revealed during one of her meetings where she enforced change in the pack, the more we embraced technology, the more dangerous we would have become to the organization that is hunting us down.

So we were deliberately kept in the dark ages by the moles planted in our packs.

“What is that thing?” Peter asks, doubtfully.

I don’t even bother to reply, walking over and running my hands over the machine, a little excited, “Where did you get this?”

“I ordered a few from one of the bigger cities,” Sarah replies, quietly, after a brief hesitation.

“How did you-?”

I’m so excited about it that I lift my gaz